Tall Order
by OughtaKnowBetter
Summary: Complete story. The Unit is sent to deal with a cult with too many weapons for their own good. Did the story work? Should I write another one?
1. Chapter 1

"Serena, let's not be watching that, honey." Kim Brown took the remote control away from her young daughter, flipping the station to something a little more age appropriate. The image on the television screen changed into a scene of a large bird with yellow feathers and a long neck crooning about the number 'seven' to a group of children Serena's age, all carefully selected for maximum cultural diversity.

Serena wasn't about to be distracted. "Mommy, I wanted to watch the other show. Isn't that what Daddy does?"

"No, honey, that is most certainly not what Daddy does. Daddy works in an office," Kim said firmly. A little too firmly, to be honest. She put the remote up on the shelf where Serena couldn't reach it.

But the original scene on the television screen had looked more than just a mite horrific. It was the Waco Massacre all over, waiting to happen yet again. It was a group of borderline psychopaths, sociopaths, and just plain crazies, thoroughly brainwashed by a cult leader into believing that the United States Government was an instrument of the devil whose sole purpose for the next decade was to torture and kill every one of the members of the 'Cult of the New Revelation' in preparation for the Next Coming which, according to the cult leaders, would be occurring in the near future. The information coming through the news media had been sketchy, but Kim found herself flipping back to the reporter on the scene every time that her daughter left the room, trying to glean every tidbit, as if that would make things come out better. There were some two hundred people in the compound, the reporter said, although that number was far from certain, and it was estimated that there were three to four guns per person with plenty of ammunition to go around. There was the Texas National Guard surrounding the perimeter, waiting for something to happen. So far, nothing had. The Cult glared at the Guard outside their fence, and the Guard tried to keep itchy triggers fingers from setting off the first damning shot. The governor was trying to negotiate a truce, trying to keep everyone and anyone from getting killed, and wasn't making good progress. It was a recipe for disaster.

Which was why, when her husband Bob's beeper went off, Kim Brown wasn't surprised. Not happy, but not surprised.

"I don't know that Texas is where we're being sent to," he told her, looking over her head, holding her close.

"Where else could it be?" Kim's voice was muffled in his chest. "_What_ else could it be?" She clutched at him; a drowning woman terrified for her impending loss. It didn't matter that he'd come back to her every time so far, bloodied but unbowed. It didn't matter that the muscles in his arms were honed to within an inch of his life, that he worked out every day to maintain that physique so that he stood the best chance of returning home to her. It didn't matter all the time he put in on the shooting range, sending practice bullets into a sheet of recycled paper with a black silhouette on it.

What mattered was that he was going. What mattered was that down the street, just six houses away, was another wife—_widow, now_—who was packing her belongings and her children and trying to figure out how she could live on a low income wage and a survivor's pension.

What mattered was that Bob Brown might not come back.

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It took Tiffy Gerhardt more than a few moments to realize that it wasn't merely her husband in her bed that was causing bombshells to go off inside her brain.

It was that damn pager.

The thing was buzzing on top of the dresser, honking at them, the noise at first covered by the noise that the pair of them were making, but now, the fireworks over, the next set of fireworks were ready to begin. Mack glared at the small black box and cursed in resignation. He reached for his pants.

Tiffy knew better than to argue. She'd tried it in the past. It hadn't worked then, it wouldn't work now, and she sincerely doubted that it would in the future. Even the slender finger caresses, the moves that would always draw him back to the sheets at better times, couldn't compete with that damn beeper. It was the siren call in the true sense of the Greek legend, the sound that called brave men to their doom. She reached for his lean and hard body, wanting him to some day acknowledge his need for her even more than his need to do his job, wordlessly trying to pull him in to her. She couldn't help it. No verbal argument, but this time, just once, perhaps…

It didn't work, just as it hadn't worked in the past. He was gone, out the door and into his truck, heading toward 'the office.' It was where they all supposedly worked, where they were 'clerks' working 'logistical supply' for the army. It was a cover story growing thin, but it was still in effect. Her husband had just been called in to find out where a shipment of paperclips had been mis-directed to. Such an emergency.

Tiffy knew better.

The re-enlistment papers on the dressers, underneath where the pager had sat just moments before, kept reminding her. Her husband was going off to some corner of the world to prevent some crisis from reaching the boiling point. He would never tell her where, but Tiffy kept the set tuned to the world news whenever he was out of the house. She knew about the stand-off going on in Texas, the one where everyone was hoping that the crazies were going to give themselves up quietly and knowing that it likely wouldn't happen. That someone would end up shooting someone else, and like as not one of the shooters would be Mack Gerhardt. Her husband.

Tiffy Gerhardt cursed softly to herself as the sound of Mack's truck died away in the distance.

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The tools hadn't been cleaned before being put away as they usually were, but that needed to wait. The pager going off made him aware of that particular detail in no uncertain terms. But the leak had been fixed, and the lady that he was proud to call his wife wouldn't have to put up with emptying a bucket of water twice daily from underneath the sink. It was a job well done, even if he had to leave the tail end of it for when he came home. Hopefully it wouldn't be too long before that happened.

Molly Blane understood, and he was proud of that, too; as proud as the day that she accepted him as her husband. There had been tough times and joyful times. Today was one of the tough times. There was no need for words, just that solid enfolding her in his arms that told them both how strong their love was, but Molly felt the need to say them anyway: "Come back safely to me."

"Always," Jonas answered, hoping that it would be true one more time. And if this was the time that it wasn't? Well, he wouldn't be in any condition that he would be able to apologize. He'd just have to be satisfied that the Army would do his apologizing for him in the form of a spousal pension, and that the rest of his surviving team and his commander would make certain that she didn't want for anything. That his daughter would be able to finish college without owing anyone a dime.

Jonas wondered where it would be this time: Afghanistan? The Philipines? It had been South America two weeks ago. And there was that crisis in Texas going on, one just begging for some highly trained intervention. Just the type that he and his squad specialized in.

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Colonel Ryan handed out the maps, one for each of them. One was a road map that showed the little town of Saylorville some twenty miles away from the cult compound; that he handed off to Brown with another copy to Hector Williams. Brown settled his butt against the table, perusing the paper, committing the roads to memory. He didn't know if they'd need more than one way in or out, but that wasn't the point. If he needed the information, he needed to have it before the question came up. Preparation was everything. The topo map went into the hands of Gerhardt. As point, Gerhardt immediately starting looking for the best way into the compound, the best places to set up a shelter from which to aim a gun, the best spots for a soldier to be positioned. Gray, the smallest of the bunch but far from less dangerous, got his own topo.

"We don't know a hell of a lot about these bozos," was Ryan's opening remarks. "Like most cults, they're out in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by a bunch of trees that make it hard to move an army into position with any sort of reasonable firepower. It also makes it easy for them to position a lot of lookouts and snipers, so watch your step. They're well-armed and dangerous and the local law enforcement seems to think that they'll be more than happy to use those weapons that they don't think that we know about. They're paranoid, gentlemen. They think that we're out to get them."

"In this case, we are," Blane noted, his deep tones remarkably mellifluous for such a deadly remark.

Ryan allowed a brief smile to interrupt his lecture. "Their leader is a whack job who goes by the name of Father Tall. His real name is John Alloway, but he gave that up when he was released from the state psychiatric facility in Wisconsin. Seems the good doctors thought that Mr. Alloway was cured enough to be let out into society."

"Hey, if you don't like the society you have, create your own," Gray quipped. "Preferably one that comes with lots of bowing acolytes to fulfill your every wish." He ruffled his map, trying to figure out how the folds had gone and failing. "How many of them are there?"

"Good question. Could be anywhere from thirty to three hundred, possibly more. One of the deputies tried to serve one of the members a warrant about two months ago, and considers himself lucky to be alive. He says he saw at least twenty men—the women and children were all kept inside that barracks-like building on your map, Gray—and he saw enough automatic weapons lying around to equip a small army. He thinks he saw a crate of grenades, as well. Needless to say, the warrant did not reach its intended target." Ryan handed out an 8 x 10 glossy. The picture showed a man from some distance away, the picture shot through a telephoto lens. The subject was taller than the other men around him, and broad through the shoulders. Long brown hair was going white, with a think skunk streak to one side, the clinging locks dangling down around his shoulders. Long legs were stuffed into equally long jeans and boots, and he wore a long vest-like affair that reminded Jonas of some of the old Renaissance religious paintings. "Father Tall. That's the best picture we've got of him. It was taken some two months ago, when the FBI started to take an interest."

"How old is he?"

"Barely forty. Not married, in the state's eyes, but the locals think that he performs a lot of 'ceremonies' where he gives the cult women to whatever men are favored for that particular night. We don't know how many kids there are, either. We've seen a few, but for the most part they're kept inside with the women. We're sure that they've dug tunnels that lead from one building to the next. That's the only thing that would account for not seeing the numbers of people that we know they've got." Ryan pointed out one building that was as large as the barracks. "We think that's the mess hall. We see smoke rising from those chimneys every night just before dinner time. These other smaller buildings, we don't have a clue."

"Could be entranceways to more underground tunnels," Gerhardt opined.

"Could be," Ryan agreed. "Could be storage depots for more munitions than we have on this whole damn base of ours."

Blane surveyed his own maps, both the road map and the topo. "Mission parameters?"

"That's where it gets tricky."

_Why am I not surprised?_ Blane kept the impassive look on his face.

Ryan was used to him and to the attitude, and moved on. "There are a couple of them. First and foremost, there's Congressman Gerald Brideswell who has gotten himself into a pickle. His ex-wife is one of Father Tall's flock."

They looked at each other.

"All right. I'll bite," Gerhardt spoke up. "If she's his ex, why are we concerned? Why is _he_ still concerned? This an election year?"

"So glad you asked." Ryan picked up another folder and started handing out pictures of a fourteen year old boy with light brown hair a little too long for anyone's taste except the shaggy-haired Gray. "Congressman Brideswell's ex-wife is also, to put it bluntly, looney toons in the certifiable sense of the word as attested to by psychiatrists in a court of law. Based on that, the congressman received sole custody of Matthew. Considering that Mom tried to take ten year old Matthew into a stripper bar a few years ago 'for the maturing experience'—in her words, quoted by the police—there really wasn't any opposition to speak of, except for Mom who is firmly convinced that Congressman Brideswell is also a servant of the devil in the person of the United States Government."

"Why do I think this is going somewhere unpleasant?" Blane murmured.

Ryan spared him a glance. "You're absolutely correct, Jonas. Mom kidnapped young Matthew and took him to Father Tall's compound. One of our spotters saw him there three days ago, and no one has left the compound since. We're ninety eight percent certain that he's still there. Your priority mission objective: get Matthew Brideswell out of there _alive_. Dead is not an option."

The five Unit members looked at each other glumly. Tall order, no pun intended.

"Is there a second objective?" Brown wanted to know.

"Of course there is, sergeant. This is the Army." Ryan beamed, the smile hearty and false. "The Attorney General has requested our assistance in serving warrants for the arrest of most of the adults that we've identified in there. It probably won't surprise you to know that the local law enforcement officers haven't had too much luck in that department."

"Probably had something to do with being seriously out-gunned," Williams offered, only half-joking.

"And out-numbered." There was no joke there. Gerhardt was serious. "There's at least thirty of them if not more."

Ryan nodded. "Which is why a frontal assault is out of the question, gentlemen. The first round of bullets is going to be followed by a general mass murder inside the barracks of the women and children, including Congressman Brideswell's son and ex-wife. Everyone would like to see that _not_ happen. Election year or not."

"Which is why they've turned to us." Blane stated the obvious.

"Which is why they've turned to us," Ryan repeated, agreeing. "Jonas, I've put all the information that we have into these packets, damn little of it that there is. I've requisitioned a Blackhawk to get you there; it leaves in four hours. You have that long to get your gear together. Figure out what you need, and use my name to acquire it. God speed."

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Blane was the first off the Blackhawk, ducking slightly in an instinctive move to avoid being decapitated by the still whirling rotors. Everything that he needed was either inside his pack, lashed to it, or hanging from some other part of his fatigues. The others too cringed automatically, even Gray, the shortest of them all. They hustled across the landing zone, heading for the small group of men waiting for them at the far end.

Blane saluted out of courtesy, not certain which of those present in the welcoming committee was in charge, or who was entitled to a salute. None were in uniform; that was reserved for the National Guardsman who had apparently been assigned to act as chauffeur for the committee. The limousine that he'd driven waited in the background for whatever important man was here to meet them. Heat wavered off of the cement, baked in by the afternoon sun, and there was the off-kilter scent of machine oil that seemed to be omni-present where ever there were aircraft. Blane ignored both the heat and the smell.

The smallish man in the center held out his hand. "I was told that you'd be arriving. David Rostenberger, from the governor's office."

"Jonas Blane." Blane took the hand, found the man's grip to be a bit limp. A lackey, then, fit only for carrying communications to and from the governor who at the moment was still supposedly trying to negotiate with the cult. He looked that part; a three piece suit in this heat did it every time. Jonas himself felt far more comfortable in his fatigues. "Have there been any developments in the past two hours?"

"No—" Rostenberger started to say, but one of the other men with him interrupted.

"There's been some movement throughout the compound," he offered, "and our Forensics Unit has uncovered some airtight evidence. We can now add a warrant for murder to the charges, a warrant for one Curt Brodin. We think he's the number two man under Father Tall."

Jonas eyed the other man carefully, liking what he saw. The man's posture held that stiffness that suggested a background in the military, the crisp clean look not entirely covered over by civilian life. "And you are—?"

"Raymond Olivero, from the local FBI bureau. Thank you for coming in on this, Sgt. Blane. We're looking at a potential disaster here."

"I have to agree with you on that," Jonas said. "There's been some movement?"

"Yes, and my people think that there's more through the tunnels between the buildings," Olivero added. "Men have been moving things here and there. We've pulled back. Tall's people are getting nervous, and we don't want to push them into anything prematurely. Not yet, anyway."

Blane nodded. "Smart move. You have a computer with a secure line somewhere that I can use?"

"We've set up a command center—"

"What do you need a computer for?" Rostenberger broke in harshly. "You're here to force those people to surrender!" He surveyed Blane's team, making his annoyance clear. "Where's the rest of your squad? When are the rest going to arrive? We have an emergency here, dammit!"

Blane kept all expression off of his face. It was clear where at least some of the roadblocks would be. The governor's office would want to keep this as quiet as possible and get it over with as quickly as possible. Well, those two objectives dovetailed with his own but he suspected that the methods about to be used were at odds.

"Mr. Rostenberger," he said, using his deep voice as a weapon of another kind. "If an army had been called for, you have one right here in the form of your very fine State National Guard." Out of the corner of his eye, Jonas observed the flicker of a smirk on the chauffeur's face. Clearly Jonas and his men were not the first that Rostenberger had tried to suborn. "Your superiors and mine, having evaluated this situation very carefully, have determined that a frontal assault with guns waving and bullets flying would result in a great many lives lost." _People lost who then would not be able to vote in the next election,_ he added mentally. "Having received those same instructions from my superiors, I have taken it upon myself to plan a mission that will carry out those instructions in a fashion that I hope will minimize casualties. Part of that planning includes up to date intelligence on that compound. Now, do you have anything to add that might give greater insight into the workings of that compound?" Jonas waited.

"The governor—"

"Is the governor inside the compound?"

"No, he's—"

"Is he speaking with any member of that compound?"

"No, he's back at the capital, waiting—"

"Then, Mr. Rostenberger, can you tell me any reason why I should be directly communicating with the governor except for him to tell me to be careful? An instruction, I believe, that I and my men have already internalized to an exceptionally high degree."

"This is the governor's state—"

"And he has already come to the very sensible conclusion to call in expert assistance from the United States Army to preserve the well-being of that state. When you call in experts, Mr. Rostenberger, you do not engage in micro-management. You step out of the way and allow your experts to perform the task you have set for them. Now, if you will excuse me, I and my men need to brief ourselves on the further developments of this situation. I believe Mr. Olivero has the equipment that we require. Mr. Olivero?"

"Right this way." Olivero too had trouble keeping the smirk off of his face.

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Molly Blane glanced at the television. Vacuuming covered over the sound, but dusting had the advantage of being able to listen and clean at the same time. Molly dusted.

"Talks appear to have broken down," the reporter told the camera earnestly. "The Cult of the New Revelation has reinforced their borders with additional men, bringing the count of able-bodied and armed cult soldiers inside up to two hundred and fifty known combatants."

Molly wondered if that was where her husband and his unit had been sent to. It was a strong possibility.

"The governor's office declines to comment at this time, stating that further details might prejudice upcoming discussions with the cult and its leaders. The National Guard continues to maintain a wide perimeter around the compound, out of range of the weapons that the fanatics have been seen to carry. There has been no food or water taken in, but no one knows how much the cult has got in storage or how many days they can last without additional supplies."

Even if this was where Jonas was, Molly knew that he would never share that with her upon his return. He never talked about his missions. Yes, there were those occasional muttered comments in his nightmares, the ones where he woke her up with the anguish easy to hear under it all, but he would never tell her. Not directly.

"This stand off has gone on for two days now," the reporter reminded her. "Live, from Texas, this is—"

Molly tuned out the name. Just another reporter, hoping for his or her shot at fame and national prominence. Already Molly couldn't remember who the reporter was, even if it was a man or a woman. What she was really looking for, she couldn't see. There was no sign of her husband on that TV screen.

Not that she had expected there to be.

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Jonas negotiated the protocols that would allow him to download the latest from the DOD satellites. Pictures flooded the screen, made eerie by the red of the heat sensors that tracked movement underground. There was precious little to be seen with conventional views, but the underground activity was noteworthy. He started with the conventional view.

It was late afternoon, and the pictures were in real time. They were showing what was occurring at this very moment inside the compound. Was Father Tall aware that he was being observed through the miracle of technology? Jonas wasn't able to tell, not with this information. Just how paranoid was the man? The previously confidential psychiatric case file, ripped open by the needs of national security and a sensible federal judge, had minimized the paranoia and emphasized the grandiose statements of a truly sick mind. Of course, those were the same psychiatric personnel who were unable to predict this outcome, this gathering of like minds into a few square miles chock full of weapons, so Jonas chose to reserve his opinion on the accuracy of that case file.

The conventional view had shown the compound. There were armed men milling around, several at the front gate and several more at the back. An additional cult soldier had been stationed here and there inside the fence, something like an M-16 cradled in his arms. Blane's hopes rose for a speedy and successful outcome: no one inside knew strategy. There were large gaps in the areas being guarded, the inhabitants of the compound instead relying on the chain link fence to keep others out.

That was all for show. The National Guard had likewise been stationed, weapons at ready, every few yards in a circle surrounding the compound but their circle was a good two miles out. Their goal was to prevent a break out, not to engage the enemy. Jonas approved. The distance between the two forces, although demanding more soldiers to maintain, would diminish the chance for a nervous and trigger-happy finger to turn this mess into a massacre.

He turned his attention to the compound itself, aware of his men over his shoulder, looking down at the computer view screen. There were two large barracks dug part way into the ground, one clearly used for cooking as shown by the quantity of smoke rising from the four chimneys tacked along the roof. Jonas could almost smell the scent of food through the computer. The other large building was more difficult to assess: best guess was that it was used as a gathering place. The intel had spoken of various 'ceremonies' that Father Tall had performed, usually bestowing female favors upon whichever man had pleased him that particular day. Was there some way to use that against them? Lock the doors, perhaps, trapping a large portion of Father Tall's men inside? Jonas set that thought aside for the moment, intending to come back to it after completing the briefing.

The smaller buildings were more troubling. There were at least twelve of them, dotted around the compound, too small to be any sort of living quarters. Jonas instructed the view to dolly in. Yes, too small for living quarters, but five of them looked well worn. The ground was shiny, packed down hard, in front. Entrances to the tunnels below, he realized, watching figures pass through. But there were more smaller buildings, and Jonas pushed the screen around until he could focus on one of them. It was squat, too short to accommodate the average man's height, and padlocked. Jonas pursed his lips. There was something stored in there, something that the average person ought not to be playing with, and Jonas could just bet he knew what that something was. Those seven buildings represented a major danger.

They had yet to discover the location of the congressman's son. Jonas switched to the heat-tracking mode.

A lot more intel popped up. Jonas blinked. He pulled the view back for a global shot, estimating at least one hundred warm bodies radiating heat from under the cover of ground and buildings and probably more. It was impossible to get an accurate count under these circumstances. The soldiers on guard duty were the brightest, the easiest to track, but deep below the surface of the ground the compound was riddled with tunnels and dug in living quarters. It looked like an ant colony. He patiently began to trace the tunnels, aware of his men mapping the routes behind him, trying to decipher the purpose of the larger spaces: offices, some of them. More weapons caches; those were the darker spots, with few hot bodies to illuminate the space.

The individual living quarters were the most numerous, and Jonas kept count. One hundred. Two hundred. A larger area with bunks for the small children, another for the adolescents. A third for the adult women; Jonas could barely make out their smaller forms in the waves of the heat sensors. It was only the odd arrangement of heat signatures that told him the gender differences. Behind him he could feel his men noting the same thing. There weren't as many bodies in that particular area but the hot couplings in the individual living quarters suggested that Father Tall had performed many 'ceremonies' just recently. _An incentive to keep up the good work_, Jonas thought grimly, feeling like a voyeur. _Father Tall may be crazy, but he clearly wasn't stupid_.

It wasn't going to be easy. Going into those warrens was going to take a great deal of courage, not to mention a healthy side helping of crazy.

Mission objective: pull out one fourteen year old boy. Where would he be? Did Father Tall know what he had on his hands? Jonas turned to Olivero. "The negotiations. Was there any progress on Congressman Brideswell's son?"

"I wouldn't call it progress." Olivero set his jaw. "Father Tall now knows that he has a valuable hostage."

"Then he is taking precautions not to lose that hostage prematurely."

"I don't have your connections," Olivero said, "and I haven't been able to see inside or underground." The FBI agent had also been drinking in the sights from the computer monitor. "But, based on the files we've amassed on Father Tall, that would be my assumption."

Jonas had to ask. "Did the boy go into the compound willingly?"

Olivero made a face. "I take it you're asking if you're going to have to drag him out, kicking and screaming and alerting the rest."

"That would be my question; yes."

Olivero pulled out a disk from the pile on the side of the table. "Take a look at this. That will better answer your question."

'This' was of one of the earlier attempts at negotiations. Jonas recognized Rostenberger as one of the lead negotiators for the state. The sound was blurry, but the pictures did a great deal to make up for it. The officials had approached the perimeter of the compound under a flag of truce, staying outside the wire fence. Father Tall had met them at the gate with a force of men and boys, all armed to the teeth.

"Freeze frame," Olivero directed. He pointed. "Look there."

Jonas looked, feeling the hot breath of his men on his neck as they craned around to look. "Matthew Brideswell."

Gerhardt snorted softly. "I guess that answers that question."

Williams agreed. "One of Tall's hand-picked guards? Smack in the middle of them? I should say so."

Jonas cocked his head, staring. "Can you enhance this shot?"

"Not much. It was taken from pretty far away. Wait a minute; let me try." Olivero fiddled with the controls. "Any better?"

"Zoom in on the boy," Jonas directed.

Matthew's face got larger and blurrier. Jonas wasn't certain that it was much of an improvement. But there were some significant points. "Look at his hands. What do you see?"

As one, his team's collective glance looked downward.

"Nothing." Brown was the first to put it in words. "His hands are empty."

Jonas nodded, satisfied. "No gun. And, look here," he pointed at the screen, "this man has his hand on Matthew's shoulder, keeping him under control. I would say," Jonas mentioned, leaning back in his chair with satisfaction, "that young Matthew, even if he walked into the compound willingly with his mother at his side, has now realized just how much trouble he is in. And that Father Tall is well aware of it, and is taking precautions. Any argument?"

There was none.

"Where are they keeping him?" Brown asked. "That important, they're probably keeping the kid away from the others."

"Good point." Jonas directed the camera to stop rolling the disk and to return to the heat tracking equipment. "Look for a spot away from the main group."

There were several spots, looking identical to the individualized living quarters that they'd seen earlier. Jonas focused the cameras onto one place in particular. Only two of the warrens in that tunnel were occupied, one by a single tall figure giving off very little heat and the other by a pair of bodies emitting more than their share. It was the only area that had less than five bodies, the only area that appeared to be alone. Some ten yards away, however, a cluster of five gathered. Those fives were stationary.

"Could be anything," Gerhardt said doubtfully.

"True." Jonas accepted that assessment as accurate. "But in the absence of additional data, it's worth noting. Everyone getting a good sense of those tunnels?"

A murmur of assents.


	2. Tall Order 2

Kim Brown turned the television back on. Her daughter Serena was in the back yard, playing on the swings. Dinner was in the oven, a small amount with just one woman and one small child to cook for.

"There was an exchange of gunfire earlier today," the reporter said, staring earnestly into the camera, trying to emote horror. "Three National Guardsmen were wounded, and the rumors are flying that one was killed. Their names have not yet been released, pending notification of their families."

_Bob!_ Kim's hand flew to her mouth. But Colonel Ryan hadn't yet appeared on her doorstep, looking grim. National Guardsmen, the reporter had said, but this was something that he was likely to have gotten wrong. No one would know that any of her husband's unit was on the premises. To be truthful, Kim herself didn't know if this was where he'd been sent.

"Unnamed government sources have indicated that the Cult of the New Revelation is more heavily armed that previously anticipated. Satellite photos have picked up indications that the group has managed to acquire several rocket launchers. Ron, can you show us what kind of weapons those are?"

"Certainly, Joan." The television cut away to a drawing of a rocket launcher, the commentator going on to describe the fire power, the specifications, everything and anything to titillate the watching viewers. Kim felt sick. Another glance toward the door; the walkway was still empty. Kim prayed for it to remain so. This was one time in her life that she truly did not wish to see Colonel Ryan.

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"You! You there! I'm talking to you!"

Since he was faced away from Rostenberger, Jonas allowed his gaze to wander upward in exasperation. When he turned around to look the man in the eye, he was back to being imperturbable.

"Can I help you with something, Mr. Rostenberger?" _Or are you just here to delay me and my men further?_

"I want you to stand down immediately!" Rostenberger said. "I've scheduled another meeting with Father Tall. We're negotiating for the release of the boy. You can't interfere."

"Interfering with your negotiations is not part of our job," Jonas told him calmly. "In fact, it would please us all greatly if you were successful and we could leave without firing a shot. Do you know if the boy is still alive?"

Rostenberger went pale. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, sir, that we are dealing with a man who is not sane. A rational man would deal from strength, and that may indeed be what Father Tall is doing. But we cannot count on it." Jonas remained seated. "How long has it been since you've seen the boy? An hour? A day?"

"I—" Rostenberger swallowed. "This morning. I saw him this morning. Through binoculars."

"Excellent. What was he doing?"

"I—I'm not sure—"

"They took him in through one of the tunnel entrances," Olivero put in from behind in bland tones. "We haven't seen him since. The ex-wife has been seen walking around the compound, gun in hand, muttering to herself. She looks pretty wild."

"We've been negotiating for her release as well," Rostenberger announced.

_Why? Is she of any use to anyone? _The thought echoed through all of his men's heads simultaneously. Jonas could all but hear it audibly. "Good for you," he murmured. "When is your meeting?"

"In one hour." Rostenberger leaned forward. "Don't screw this up, or I'll have your head handed to you on a platter. Don't move from this place; do you hear me?"

"I can hear you just fine, Mr. Rostenberger." Jonas heard another thought from his men: _how the hell are you keeping your temper with this ass?_

"Good. With any luck, you'll be sent home. Nobody will know that you've ever been here." Rostenberger stalked off, taking his thunder with him.

Jonas smiled grimly. "That would please me very much, sir," he murmured. He sighed, turning back to the real time view on the computer screen, watching the heat signatures wander about the compound. "Special Agent Olivero, do you have any further information for me and my men?"

"Aside from the fact that there's more than one opponent here?" Olivero couldn't resist asking.

"I wasn't about to comment."

"I shouldn't have, either," Olivero sighed. "I shouldn't complain. I don't have to deal with him often. He prefers to stay uptown, and my territory is the outback. We both like it that way. But yes, there is something more you should be aware of."

"More weapons?"

"No. But this will make it more difficult for you to move around." Olivero changed the view on the computer screen to the more conventional sight. The sun was beginning to set, with shadows growing here and there. It was still warm enough to be in short sleeves, and a few of the men who were guarding the gates had even doffed their shirts in an effort to keep cool. The pale skin on several looked reddened and sore. "Look at them."

"I see them. What are you telling us?"

Olivero grimaced. "That Father Tall is not exactly an equal opportunity employer. You and your man Williams are not going to be able to move around in the compound without getting noticed pretty damn quick. Gerhardt and Brown maybe; there are two hundred men, best we can figure, and they may be able to slip through. You, never."

Jonas smiled grimly and turned back to the infra-red view. "Mr. Olivero, I thank you for your powers of observation and your concern, but I don't think that will be a problem. We are already prepared to give notice of our intentions."

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"I can't keep this up, Tiffy." Colonel Ryan sat on the bed. His pants were on the floor, his skivvies beside them. "We've got to stop this."

"If you truly wanted to stop this, you wouldn't have come here," Tiffy Gerhardt told him. She sidled up behind him, stretching a long arm around his chest, enjoying the feel of skin against skin. "No one has seen us."

He pulled her arm away. "We've been lucky."

"We've been careful," she corrected him, nibbling on his ear. "We'll continue to be careful."

He disgusted himself with this behavior. "Doesn't it even bother you that I just sent Mack on another mission? That he might not come back?"

"Where to?" she asked bitterly. "I never know. I never know anything. I can guess—" and she pointed to the blank television screen in the corner, "but I never know. Shall I turn it on?" she taunted, "or should I turn _you_ on?"

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They could have simply ordered the National Guard to let them through the perimeter, but that would have alerted Rostenberger that they were giving the negotiator as much attention as he deserved which was to say: none. Jonas judged that it was better to have his men slide through the gaps in the defense; a better demonstration of the limitations of Rostenberger's resources, as well. Three of the Guardsmen had taken a break on a convenient boulder underneath a grove of trees, confident that those inside the perimeter had no intention of emerging and certainly not at this time. The thought that someone might be trying to get closer to the compound never crossed their collective mind. _After all, all the crazies are inside, aren't they?_

He regrouped them several yards away from the wire fence. They kept their voices down. The sun had just slipped behind the tall mountains, leaving the forest dark and threatening, an occasional firefly piercing the gloom but doing little other damage to their cover. Jonas put night goggles to his face. "No change. Still have the guards out." He glanced over the four of them: all fine men. Good soldiers. Didn't want this to be the last time he commanded any one of them, not unless it was through a promotion and probably not even then. "Everyone ready?"

Murmured assents.

One last thing. He touched his ear piece. "Snake Doctor, here. Base Man?"

"Base Man on tap." The voice had Olivero's smooth and liquid accent. "As anticipated, the conversation went nowhere, and our people were lucky to get out without catching a bullet. One man down but expected to recover. Not the one down that we wanted, worse luck. However, at present, we are unable to confirm either the target's whereabouts or that it is intact. Repeat, no verification at present."

"Copy that." Jonas clicked off the channel. "Everyone get that?"

"Right." Brown put it into words. "Negotiations went bust, and Tall's men went boom with the bullets."

"And nobody's seen the kid," Gray added. "Nobody knows if he's alive, or even if he's still inside the compound. We still a go?"

"We are still go," Jonas said quietly. "Move out."

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There was a rap on the door, and Kim hurried to answer it, praying that it wouldn't be Colonel Ryan. She didn't dare look out through the peep hole, just in case, she couldn't stand it if it was, she would simply break down on this side of the door, so she threw the door open—

"Molly!" _Relief!_ Kim bit her lip, feeling foolish. Bob was all right, wasn't he? He had trained for missions like these. She was being foolish, thinking he was at that Texas fiasco.

"Hello, Kim." Molly held a pie in her hands. "I just dropped by. Jonas is out of town tonight, and I know Bob is, too. I can't possibly eat more than just a sliver of this myself. I thought that you might like some company tonight." She glanced inside. "Where's Serena? Would she like some?"

"She's getting ready for bed, but I can't think that she wouldn't," Kim assured her. "Let me get her. How about a little bit of ice cream on the side? Serena," she called. "Ms. Blane's here with some pie. Would you like to join us ladies?"

And later, when Serena was tucked into bed and snuggled under the covers, they turned on the news.

It wasn't over yet.

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Gray touched two electrodes to the chain link fence and shook his head: no current. The fence was not electrified. Jonas smiled. Score one for the good guys. It was only a moment's work to clip a hole big enough for a man to slip through.

Gerhardt went first, Brown on his tail. Sharp ears heard a quiet scuffle from one side, a muffled yelp of dismay from the other that was quickly silenced. A moment later came the soft warble of a dove, then another. Jonas nodded to Gray. Pack securely fastened to his back, Gray too eased his way through the new opening in the fence and disappeared into the brush.

Time to move. Jonas and Williams split up, Jonas to back up newbie Brown and Williams for Gerhardt. The pair located their counterparts standing over naked men, donning the uniform of the compound: jeans and a dingy linen shirt that had seen better days but very little water. Brown gave Jonas a reproachful look: _do I really have to put that thing on? It stinks. Literally._

_You wanted to join this outfit, son. Put it on._

Brown steeled himself, hoping there were no crawling insects that would jump out at him. He rose, slipping away into the bush to join Gerhardt, similarly attired to blend into the compound. Jonas contented himself with dragging the unconscious guard back out and away beyond the fence that defined the compound, Williams in his wake with his own victim. Those two guards would have to sit this one out. All in all, they would be the lucky ones. Jonas sat himself down to wait, ear piece active.

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"They're not there, you know." Molly neatly speared another bite of apple pie, swiping up some of the melted vanilla ice cream with it.

"There's no reason to think that they are," Kim agreed, trying to match the other woman's composure.

"Things have been quiet around the Cult of the New Revelations now that it's dark," the reporter told them. "Another day, and more rounds of negotiations to come tomorrow. Government sources have suggested that progress is being made, that the cult leaders are willing to release some of the children in the morning. Experts for this news station are speculating that food is running short, that the cult leaders are willing to decrease the mouths to feed in order to maintain the integrity of the camp. Others, however, are not so certain. We turn now to Delores Whitcomb, neighbor. She lives not far from here, and has had to put up with this cult for a number of years."

The TV cameras flashed to show an obese woman sweating in the afternoon sun, the clip having been shot several hours earlier.

"I don't trust 'em none," Delores Whitcomb declared. "They're crazy, all of 'em! Stole my chickens last year, shot at my dog. Oughta' burn 'em out. Take care of 'em right!" She looked straight into the camera. "This would never have happened if we had some decent government around here!"

The camera swiveled back to the reporter. "John, there is no record of any chickens being stolen in any of the local law enforcement agencies. Local officials question if Mrs. Whitcomb actually filed a complaint but there is some suspicion that there may be a conspiracy going on. Just how many law enforcement agencies does the Cult of the New Revelations have in their back pocket? Is this just the tip of the iceberg? How many charges have been 'fixed' by a little money changing hands? Back to you, John."

Molly Blane exchanged glances with Kim Brown. "God help us," she said. "That's better than a stand up comedy routine."

Kim, who was on the verge of buying into the ridiculous story through sheer panic, used a small giggle to cover over her nerves. "Some people'll see a conspiracy every where they look."

"We don't need that. There are enough real problems to keep us going."

Kim agreed. She looked at the dusty flatland where the reporters had set up their own base. "It appears as though the Texas National Guard has it under control. They don't need any help from anyone, let alone the Army."

"Indeed they do," Molly agreed. She took another bite of pie, not tasting one crumb of it.

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They kept silent as they passed through the doors that marked the entrances to the tunnels dug deep into the ground. Gerhardt and Brown kept their heads down, plodding along, trying to look like the other men who were pacing the corridors with guns in their hands.

Gerhardt led, his nose for direction taking them toward the lowest depths where they hoped that they would find Matthew Brideswell. Brown followed, watching the men that they passed for any sign that the pair had been identified as intruders. The handgun felt heavy at his waist but the M-16 in his hands surprisingly light. All the men were carrying weapons of some kind, some setting them against the wall as they hunkered down to wait for what the next day would bring. Brown spotted two men dragging less than willing women with them in the same direction that he and Gerhardt were headed, had to work to keep himself from interfering. _Not the mission, Brown. Get the kid out first, then come back and take down this popsicle stand_. One of the women had short brown hair, just like Kim. Little shorter, not quite so trim. Didn't matter. Close enough to his wife that it hurt. Brown forced himself to keep moving in Gerhardt's wake.

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Gray swung the ruck around so that it hung casually over one shoulder, the bag carefully covering over the rifle across his back, trying to look as though he'd been assigned to carry items from one place to another. In a sense, he had, just not the items the cult members thought that he carried and the person doing the assigning wasn't any member of the cult. Well, maybe they did have a good idea what he carried, since all those little shacks held a lot of stuff that had a tendency to go boom. The stuff in his pack had the same tendency. It was Gray's devout wish that the items in his ruck would meet the items within the shacks, and that he would be a decent enough distance away when that happened so that he wouldn't get caught in the fall out.

He reached the first shack, ambling around to the side with the most bushes so that what he did next wouldn't be seen. Taking a quick look around to make certain that no one was looking, he pulled out his equipment: a small chunk of plastic explosive. A detonator. And a small signaling device, so that he could set off all the explosives from a comfortable distance. He had one such device; he'd left another with Jonas as back up, in case something went wrong. It only took a few moments to attach the explosives to the wall just above the ground and hidden behind the bushes. It would take a miracle for any of the cult members to find it unless they were looking for it.

Of course, if any of the cult members found Gray, they'd sure be looking hard for those devices. That was a given.

_Don't get caught_, he told himself.

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It was hard to wait, but Jonas had done enough of it in his lifetime to be an expert at it. There was that time in Saudi Arabia, waiting for that Bedouin prince to arrive. And once he'd spent a very long time waiting for the general to make up his mind what to do with a very young—and foolish, at that stage of his career—Jonas Blane. And he'd waited for the apple of his eye to make her arrival in the world in the usual way, with a infant's wail that would bring a smile to all but the most miserable of Scrooges. Yes, Jonas Blane had done his share of waiting, and he would do a bit more before he was through.

Hector Williams hadn't yet acquired that level of experience, and it showed. Oh, not in any particular one thing. Not in looks, not in a wasted movement. Williams too sat there as steady as a rock, waiting for the all clear. But Jonas knew his men, knew them well; knew by just looking at Williams that the wait was wearing on him. Williams would much rather be out and around, maybe at Gray's back setting the explosive charges. But in this particular instance that would be taking a risk that didn't need to be taken, and Jonas was opposed to needless risks. If a chance _had_ to be taken, that was one thing. But no man put himself in harm's way if he didn't have to. Not if he wanted to stay in Jonas Blane's outfit. Hector Williams wanted to stay.

So they waited; listening, watching, and listening some more for the moment to come.


	3. Tall Order 3

Kim looked up at the knock on the door, exchanging a glance with Molly. Both women were glued to the set, pretending to talk, pretending to be discussing the various challenges of raising daughters both small size and college size, but in reality watching the events in Texas unfolding almost as they happened.

The knock sounded clearly. Kim frowned. "I wasn't expecting anyone, and certainly not this late."

"Look out the window," Molly advised, getting to her feet. The neighborhood had its share of strong and stalwart military types to keep it clean, but that didn't mean that something couldn't happen. "Where do you keep your gun?"

But Kim had already identified the caller, and was opening the door. "It's Tiffy," she announced. "Come in. Mack's out of town, too?"

"On business," Tiffy said unnecessarily, but it was habit. All three of them knew what 'business' their menfolk were in, and all three knew better than to be talking about it. "I thought I'd stop by, just to chat."

"Molly brought pie," Kim told her. "Can I get you a piece?"

But the television, still on in the background, broke in: "This just in! Sources say that a large fire has been seen in the religious retreat of the Cult of the New Revelation! It is unclear what caused that fire; local residents openly wonder if government agencies are taking the opportunity to force the cultists out with fire. Stay tuned for more details." The camera panned over the crowd, focusing on this one and then that.

"Doesn't that look like…" Kim's voice trailed off.

"No," Molly said firmly. "No, it doesn't. It doesn't look like anyone we know."

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Gerhardt peeked around the corner, Brown keeping an eye on their six. He pulled back immediately, hushing Brown with a quick finger to his lips.

Fingers flashed. _Time to talk._

_Unlocked room over there. Looks quiet._

The pair silently made their way to the place that Brown had spotted, slipping inside and pulling the door closed behind them. Gerhardt scanned the room, making certain that it was empty. He pulled out his transceiver.

"Dirt Diver to Snake Doctor." In a bare whisper.

"Snake Doctor here, Dirt Diver. Sit rep?"

"Target acquired, repeat, target acquired. Target has a healthy harem."

"Roger that, Dirt Diver. Are you able to proceed at present?"

"That's a negative, Snake Doctor. The harem is _very_ healthy. We will be requiring the assistance that we spoke of."

"Roger that, Dirt Diver. Sit tight."

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Jonas sat back on his haunches. It was beginning. "They found the boy," he informed Williams, "but the kid is being guarded by too many for them to take out quietly." He switched channels on his transceiver. "Boombox, this is Snake Doctor."

"Boombox here, Snake Doctor."

"Boombox, Dirt Diver is in the bar and needs a keg for his buddies."

"Roger that, Snake Doctor. Working at getting the fifth keg off the truck."

"ETA?"

"Not sure of that, Snake Doctor. It's a little busy right now. Got a bunch of dancers doing their thing on the main stage."

"It's about to get a whole lot busier, Boombox. I need drinks for the house in five. I'm willing to pay for them, if needed."

"Roger that, Snake Doctor. Drinks in five for whoever is around. Stand by for the floor show."

Jonas clicked off the transceiver. "Soon," was all he said.

Williams tried to relax against the tree, yet still stay ready with his weapon. Tension betrayed him in every line of his body, eyes scanning the compound, watching the cult members strutting about, posturing at the National Guardsmen in the distance. He waited impatiently. "Five minutes," he agreed. It seemed like an unconscionably long time.

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The television set had long since gotten hot, sending off little slivers of heat into the room that the air conditioner was working hard to combat. The conversation of the three women had long since disintegrated into monosyllables as they watched the drama unfold.

"The fire at the retreat of the Cult of the New Revelations is still burning. Flames can be seen in the distance but what is unclear is whether or not the fire is under control. Several trees in the area are ablaze, and threatening to spread. Local fire officials have speculated that the fire may be due to cult members engaging in illegal bonfires that leaped to the nearby brush. The weather is a near-drought, with the underbrush drier than it has been for the last three days."

"Three days!" Tiffy snorted. "Idiots."

"Local inhabitants are convinced that federal marshals are trying to burn the cult members out as the most humane of methods. Fire trucks are in the area; choppers with flame retardants are ready to fly, according to Fire Chief Lane McReady. Carson, do we have that interview with Chief McReady ready to roll?"

"Yes, Barbara, we do."

"I ought to be moving along," Molly said. "It's late, and tomorrow's a busy day. Jonas was going to get the car worked on. Now I'll have to plan to take it in myself. I suspect his business trip won't be over for a bit."

"You need a lift to drop the car off?" Kim asked.

"Thank you. I'd appreciate that. Eight too early for you?"

"I'll be up," Kim promised.

But neither Molly nor Tiffy made any effort to leave. The impending massacre in Texas was still looming.

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Gerhardt signed off. "We wait."

Brown looked automatically at the closed door that led to the tunnels outside. Those tunnels were empty, but there were cultists just down the hall, presumably guarding the boy they were after. "How long?"

"As long as we need to." Gerhardt settled himself against the wall, hunkering down with his rifle across his knees. "We'll know when it's time. It'll be pretty obvious."

Brown gave a short smile. "I guess it will."

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That was the fifth shack, but not the most important one. That had been dealt with first. Even if caught or killed, even if unable to set off the bombs with his triggering device, Gray had made certain that the mission could be completed by the rest. Jonas, team leader, had a duplicate device to set off the explosives that Gray had already placed. The mission could go forward.

Fifth one. The latest shack to receive its payload laced with plastic explosives. There were seven all told, and Gray had been able to get to four of them so far, with the fifth in close proximity. With a five minute deadline, he doubted that he'd be able to blow all seven. But five should do the trick, should destroy enough of the munitions so that the rest of his team could operate. Gray prepared the package while hidden in the bushes; there wasn't much time left. Jonas' message had made that clear. Gerhardt and Brown were in position, waiting for Gray to complete his part of the mission. Everyone waiting for Boombox.

Now or never, and never wasn't one of the options he'd been given. Taking advantage of the dark, Gray sidled up to the shack, placing his fifth bundle of explosives under the bush next to the squat building.

Done. All he needed to do now was to get far enough away and flip the trigger. The other two shacks would have to be satisfied with staying intact for the moment. Gray headed back for the trees at a healthy stroll, trying to look like just another cult member in the fresh air of the compound, waiting for the National Guard to begin shooting. Didn't need even that trigger, really; Jonas could hit the switch as well. And would, in five minutes less what Gray had just spent applying the bundle to shack number five. What Gray really needed was to get far enough away so that he wouldn't be hit by the flying shrapnel. That sounded like a pretty important priority at the moment.

"What'cha doing, brother?"

Cursing out loud would be a clear cut admission of guilt. It would probably make it awfully plain to the cultist that Gray was someone that Father Tall didn't want to be in this particular spot at this particular time. Gray straightened up; how many were there? One, even two, he could overwhelm with surprise and top-notch military training and get away before—

_Crap_.

_Click_. Four rifles aimed by four cultists stopped that idea cold in its tracks.

An exceptionally tall man with a long beard and a strange light in his eye moved up from behind the cultists.

"I believe he asked you what you were doing, brother."

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"The fire appears to be under control," the reporter announced. "Telescopes are showing that the flames are out, and that only a few clouds of smoke are left. It's difficult to see in the night but infra-red cameras suggest that the danger of an all out forest fire is past. Chief McReady is keeping his engines at ready, but has advised us that he doesn't believe that they will be needed. One truck has already been called to a one alarm fire in town, and isn't expected to return until early next morning with its crew.

"These people are working tremendously hard," the reporter said earnestly, pushing sincerity for all she was worth. "Everyone is trying for a peaceful surrender. Negotiations are still under way, although there's no word yet as to how much progress is being made. Less than an hour ago some food was sent into the compound in exchange for the release of three more female cult members. Those women are currently being taken to local hospitals, where they will be treated and then released into the custody of local officials for debriefing. It is hoped that with additional information, the rest of the cult members will give themselves up—"

"When pigs fly," Tiffy muttered just loudly enough so that the other two could hear her.

"Mommy?" came a little voice.

"Serena!" Kim was on her feet in an instant. "What are you doing up, sweet pea?"

But Serena's eyes had already been captured by the scene on the television. "Mommy, isn't that where Daddy is?"

"No, honey. Daddy's at work."

"All night long, Mommy?"

"Some times he has to work late," Kim said firmly.

"But Tommy said—"

"Who're you going to believe?" Kim wasn't having any of it. "Tommy who is five years old or your mother?"

"Well…you, Mommy."

"Thank you for that, young lady. Now it's time for you to go to sleep. Scoot."

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Williams looked at his watch. Six minutes had passed. Nothing had happened. He didn't want to look at his team leader but couldn't help it.

Jonas wasn't watching him. He was staring at the compound, as if he could make the place blow up by the sheer power of his gaze. There were cult members strolling around, trying to look dangerous with sleek gray guns in their hands. A dog sniffed at a post, meandered off.

It wasn't happening. Jonas dragged out the device that Gray had given him, the device that would set off the explosives that Gray had been able to place. Four were already in place, including the all important main one. The fifth was needed but if they had to do without it, they would. Six and seven were gifts that would have to wait for another occasion. It was time.

It was already past time.

Gray should have called in. If he could. The explosives should have gone off.

_Drinks on the house_.

Jonas hit the switch.

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A crack split the air, and the world plunged into darkness. The television burped and died.

Tiffy squealed, hushed herself. "What happened?"

"Power's out," Kim said, with some slight annoyance. "I wonder if there's a storm in the area, maybe took out a power line."

Molly grimaced, the others unable to see it in the dark but hearing it in her voice. "If that's so, maybe Tiffy and I ought to be heading on home, before the rain hits."

"On the other hand," Tiffy offered, "maybe the power will be right back."

"Might," Molly agreed.

"Nothing we can do in a house without power."

"True." _Not really. It's late. There's sleeping to get to_.

"We could wait just a few more minutes. We don't have to leave Kim alone."

"I'm a big girl," Kim protested, but not very forcefully.

"Yes, you are, but that's no reason to have to go through things alone. We stick together," Molly said firmly. "We'll give it just a few minutes, see what happens."

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It looked impressive, Williams had to admit. Beside him, he could feel Jonas thinking the same thing. Five buildings shot up, rocking the entire compound, proving that Gray had successfully planted five explosive packages and that those explosives had detonated the munitions hidden within the cult's shacks. The place erupted in noise, screams, gunfire, blasts of light and, most importantly: chaos.

More confusion was needed, along with a healthy helping of fear. Williams sighted down his rifle, targeting a man with what appeared to be an automatic rifle, capable of throwing a lot of lead in a very short period of time. A single sniper shot, and the rifle was left without a handler. Williams searched swiftly for his next target. Take out the most important ones, the men most capable of taking charge and restoring order. Chaos, at the moment, was their ally.

Jonas moved several yards away for a different vantage point. Gray had done himself proud. The power was gone, the electricity generators now so much rubble and the spotlights that had brightened the compound now dark as the trees that surrounded them. An occasional crackle from the shack to the right told him that there would be no further electrically powered equipment in use until a spare generator was trucked in, and that shouldn't happen for a long time if ever. Certainly not until the local authorities had had the opportunity to finish what Jonas and his men had started. He carefully aimed his weapon, fired, and moved to his next location. Best to make it look as though there was an entire platoon of men surrounding the compound.

"Dirt Diver, this is Snake Doctor. Are you moving?"

"Snake Doctor, this is Dirt Diver. That's affirmative."

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It was a toss up as to which came first: the sound or the fury. Gray heard his eardrums pop almost simultaneously with getting slammed in the back by the explosion. He'd felt the same sort of weightlessness before, horsing around on a trampoline. He felt more than saw the four cult members and Father Tall flung into the air beside him, all toppling to the ground with all the grace of a sack of potatoes.

Gray was half-expecting it to happen, which put him half a second ahead of the rest. He rolled to his feet, grabbing the rifle from one of the cult members and ramming the butt of the gun into the man's gut. The cult member folded. One down; three more to go. Gray tried to fire the gun in his hands. It jammed. Gray flung the useless hunk of jammed metal at the cult member, who stumbled backward.

This wasn't working. Gray was good, and they were not, but there were four of them. And they were bigger than he was. _The bigger they are, the harder they fall_, Gray chanted to himself. And proved it to himself by sweeping someone's feet out from under.

Which is when Gray discovered that the flying shrapnel had done damage not only to his adversaries but to himself. His own leg collapsed along with the cult member. Fire shot up and down the appropriate nerve.

_Not good_. He had to end it quickly, before they realized what was going on.

When in doubt, take out the leader. It was a strategy that had worked for millennia, and it would work one more time. If he was lucky. And fast. And lucky. And lucky. And fast.

Father Tall had long hair. Gray grabbed that hair in his left and his knife in his right. One yank, and Father Tall's neck was within easy reach of the blade.

"Hold it or he dies!" Gray yelled.

They stopped. Eyes grew wide, then hard. Sullen concern for their leader scuttled in.

_Okay. Now what?_

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The scant light in the room died a swift and painless death.

That was their signal. Gerhardt and Brown pulled out their night goggles, tugging the bug-eyed monster masks over their faces.

The room leaped into red relief, the stray stick of furniture standing out as much as it did in the conventional light. Both men could hear the half dozen guards outside in the hall calling out nervously, asking for light, wondering what had happened. Only the pair locked in embrace within one of the living quarters down the hallway didn't notice. They'd already turned out the lights.

Gerhardt gave the thumbs up sign; Brown nodded in agreement. They eased out through the door of the small room and silently footed their way toward the guards.

The cult members never knew what happened. Gerhardt yanked the first one back with a hand over the man's yap and another choking the wind out of him. A few seconds later he eased the body down to the floor, Brown's own victim laid out next to him.

"Richie? Richie? This is no time to be fooling around."

Brown agreed whole-heartedly. There was no time to fool around. Richie's friend ended up with Brown's hands around his throat.

Too much noise with this pair. Not much noise, just enough to raise suspicion.

"Get the damn flashlight!" one of the last guards snarled, fear putting more volume into his voice. He was well aware that there was an enemy outside at their gate. What he didn't realize was that the enemy had penetrated within to his very location. "Aaron, you got the flash? Turn it on!"

No flashlight went on, giving Gerhardt the distinct impression that Aaron was among the first pair to be taken out. In the long run, it didn't matter. The night goggles let him see exactly where the remaining two guards were. One tug divested them of their guns. The second move—ramming those same guns into a pair of glass stomachs—removed the guards from their posts.

Still silent. There were no guards left, but Gerhardt had been in too many thoroughly snafu'ed situations to take a chance. More fingers wiggled in the darkness: _get the kid_. Brown wrestled his rifle over his shoulder and out of the way, fumbling for the door latch.

Unlocked. Why should it be locked? They were underground, in the middle of the compound, with half a dozen cult members on guard. Who could possibly escape under these circumstances?

Only a congressman's kid with a team of highly trained, highly elite soldiers coming after him.

Brown had to bite his tongue to keep from cursing when he slipped inside. The room had a single cot in the corner, but the occupant wasn't using it. The sole occupant of the room, a fourteen year old boy with light brown hair shagging down over his eyes, was strung up by a rope to the beam across the rafters, his toes barely able to touch the ground. Brown set his jaw. It was one thing to do this to an enemy soldier, but a kid? Brown was suddenly and savagely glad that so much damage had been done up top. This was clearly a group that needed to be taken down a notch or two, and Brown was grateful to have the opportunity to do it.

The boy raised his head, unable to see in the dark. "Who—who's there?"

He didn't call for his mother, the only relative he had in this hell hole, Brown noted. "Here to get you out of this," Brown said, trying to keep his voice even. "Your dad sent us."

"Dad?" The kid's voice wavered. "My dad's here?"

Right. Congressman Brideswell, from what Brown recalled looking at the photos, wouldn't be able to traverse a mile without calling for a chauffeur. _Didn't have to say that to this kid_. "He arranged for us to come get you." Which was no more than the truth. Brown's knife was in his hand, sawing at the rope. "You gonna be able to walk out of here?"

"Yeah," and Brown could hear the fib. The kid was trying to be brave. _Points for the fourteen year old_. Make a good man some day, if they could get him out of here in one piece. The rope parted, and the kid slipped down toward the floor. Brown caught the slight figure easily, holding him until young Matt could feel his feet under him. Brown sensed the tremors that shook the young body, knew that they were unreleased tears that the kid would never admit to. Certainly not in front of anyone he cared about.

"You hang onto me," Brown directed. "I've got night-goggles. I'll get you out of here." He slipped an arm under Matt's shoulders, pretending it was just needed for guidance and not for the straight-forward task of ambulation.

"You got him?" Gerhardt's voice came harsh and whispered.

"Got 'im. Let's move out."

Gerhardt toggled his transceiver. Brown could see it; the boy couldn't. "Dirt Diver to Snake Doctor. We are go. Repeat: we have a go."

"Good to hear, Dirt Diver. Rendezvous in ten."

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"Step it up," Jonas advised Williams. "We'll be out of here in ten."

Williams nodded, firing off a burst of automatic gunfire, aiming for three inches above several heads. It didn't take anyone down permanently, but it did have the effect that he wanted: a dozen cult members hit the dirt, hands over their heads, screaming in terror. It was almost too easy—Williams stopped himself. It was thoughts like that which got people killed. This mission wasn't finished yet.

Jonas looked at his watch, the dial glowing dimly in the moonlight. He'd donned his own night goggles, picking off any cult member who showed the slightest initiative toward either organizing the chaos or restoring power to the devastated compound. He hadn't seen Father Tall yet, and that concerned him. He would have thought that the cult leader would be bobbing around, trying to marshal his troops back into something that could continue to hold off the National Guard camped just outside their gates.

The night goggles gave Jonas an unfair advantage. He slipped through the hole that they'd made in the fence, posing as one of the cult members, the others unable to identify him in the darkness as long as he kept his face down with a hat over his head. He didn't look quite like the others, but in the dark and the confusion he could pass. That was the plan.

Jonas made his way to the barracks. Just as his computer spying had told him, the building was large and dug into the ground, sitting there at least four feet down. Only another six feet rose up over the dirt, low enough so that Jonas could almost see over it to the other side. There were windows along the side, and he made use of them to peer inside.

It was a dormitory in the true sense of the word: beds lined both sides of the hall, with one set bunked up two high. Women and children were inside, milling around nervously, letting out quiet bleats of fear. It fit with what Jonas knew of the cult: women were second class citizens in Father Tall's world. They were kept here until they were needed, for cooking and cleaning, for entertaining the men. Not permitted to think, not permitted to participate in the more important 'man's world.' Jonas wrestled a snort into submission. These folks were just plain lucky that it was Jonas and his men come to wrench them back into the Twenty-First Century. If it had been his Molly doing this job, they'd have been a whole lot sorrier than they were right now.

But that did make this particular mission a whole lot easier. There were no explosives inside, no lethal cocktails to drink, no way to kill off a lot of innocent and mis-guided cult members when impending doom approached. The only thing that needed to happen here was to prevent any of the more fanatical cult members from accomplishing that deed in an excess of fervor. Jonas looked around.

Goal: prevent anyone from going in or out from that barracks. Locking the door was a stop gap measure at best: a smattering of bullets from one of those automatics would shatter the flimsy locks that he saw. Hah—a simple pry bar would do the trick even faster. No, he needed something a little more heavy duty—he had it.

Gray hadn't been the only one to carry explosives. The pineapples that everyone else carried as a matter of course weren't as fancy as Boombox's toys, but they went boom just the same and they could accomplish the task at hand. And, Jonas reflected, it would add to the confusion. He grinned, careful not to let white teeth show in the moonlight. He did _so_ like multi-tasking. Accomplished two things at once. Satisfied his sense of efficiency.

He moved himself some ten yards away, aware of the people around him. There were some, but not as many in this part of the compound. The majority of the fighting men—and he used the term loosely—were concentrated over where one of the shacks containing the weapons were, yelling and screeching. One was throwing dirt onto a fiery tree that had been ignited by falling shrapnel from one of the more explosive shacks. Water wasn't available, and the man was clever enough to make do with the things he had around him. Jonas would be pleased to see him and his brains removed from this little shindig.

It didn't take much. Jonas pulled the pin on his grenade and tossed it into the nearby grove of trees. Then he ran.

It worked as well as he ever could have hoped. Multi-tasking again: the clever firefighter went flying back to crunch against a tall and sturdy tree trunk. He stopped moving. But the biggest gain was that six of the eight trees in the grove toppled over. They toppled over right against the barracks, neatly pinning the door underneath a pile of woody rubbish. There was no way that anyone was getting in or out without a bulldozer and a dozen chain saws. The ladies and their children inside might be frightened and would be a little hungry when they finally came out, but they'd be safe from the outside predations.

Time to move on to the rendezvous point. Williams had already taken himself in that direction, firing off enough shots to keep the cult members from guessing how few attackers there were and keeping the cultists hugging the rocks on the ground in an effort to keep the bullets from their bodies. Those cultists didn't need to know that Williams was putting those bullets exactly where he wanted them. Mission objective number two: assist the local authorities in apprehension of said personnel, not kill them. Though it might be less costly for the state coffers, the expense in terms of personnel and ethics would be too much to bear. That murderer that Special Agent Olivero had mentioned, what was his name? Brady, Brodin, something like? The world would be a better place without him in it, either locked away in a jail cell or locked away six feet under. Jonas Blane didn't much care which.


	4. Tall Order 4

The kid could barely keep his feet, not that Brown could blame him. He'd been hanging by his arms from the rafters for several hours—Matt had lost track of the time. It could have been three hours, or it could have been thirty. Matt hadn't been seen by the authorities in over a day; Father Tall had quite correctly figured out that a congressman's son was worth a lot in terms of long term survival and had taken precautions that the asset wouldn't run away as Matt had threatened to do. Father Tall might be insane, Brown mused grimly, but he wasn't stupid. Brown kept a strong arm underneath Matt's shoulder, helping him through the corridors, bumping into lots of other men in the dark that Gerhardt and Brown could see with their night-goggles and that Matthew couldn't. The cultists had growled at them, but Gerhardt had grumbled back, sounding like one of them, shepherding the pair through toward freedom and the open night air.

"Look out where you're going!"

"Quit bumping into me. You're spoiling my aim!"

"There's nothing to aim at, idiot! We're in the tunnels."

"You heard from Father Tall?"

"I heard he got killed."

"Big explosion, took out the generators. What're we gonna do?"

"Take orders. Brother Curt, Father Tall always said to look to him."

"So where is he?"

"I heard Father Tall got killed, too," Brown put in. _Never hurts to add a little more fuel to the fire_. "Maybe we all ought'a surrender right now, before anyone else gets themselves killed."

"You crazy? You know what they gonna do to us, boy? They gonna _brainwash_ us, send us out to fight the _commies_!"

Brown could imagine Gerhardt rolling his eyes. _And these idiots are eligible to vote. My little girl could make a better decision. The Cold War is over, geniuses._

"Them commies are running the government."

"Them as ain't Martians," added another.

_God help us. God help this country_.

Steps, heading upward and out of the tunnels. Gerhardt, in the lead, stubbed his toe, stumbling forward. Depth perception was lacking with the goggles, but he recovered swiftly, putting a hand out to assist his team mate and their charge. Despite the help, Matt fell forward. Brown caught him, the kid stifling a yelp.

"What's going on there?"

"I tripped," Gerhardt snarled. "Damn generators. Where's the flashlight?"

There was a flashlight clipped to his belt. Naturally, under the circumstances, Gerhardt wasn't about to bring that up.

"Somebody bring out the kid? Who's watching him?"

_Damn_. Time to hustle, before somebody developed a couple of brain cells. There were six steps up through the stairwell to the Great Outdoors in the compound, and Gerhardt made use of them, pushing open the door and leading the other two out.

It was more dangerous out here. Down in the tunnels there had been a lot of cult members, and darkness, and the kid had kept quiet for the most part. They'd slipped through. Here there were bullets flying over head in the moonlight, bullets that could hit both cult members and Unit members. There was a reason that Blane hadn't let the National Guardsmen add to the hail of lead; there were a few friendlies around, Mack Gerhardt being one of them. And they had to get to the rendezvous point.

Gerhardt put his mouth next to Brown's ear. "Try not to shoot. Let's keep a low profile."

"Right." Brown looked around, searching for a path through the mess.

Gerhardt already had it. "This way. Through those trees. Stick close to the kid, and I'll run interference." He slid his bowie out of its sheath, the eight inches of carbon steel glinting in the moonlight. He looked grim. "Low profile," he repeated.

They moved forward, the two soldiers sure-footed in the dark, the fourteen year old tripping over roots with Brown's hand under his arm. The kid was trying to keep up, hadn't uttered another sound since that yelp at the stairs. Brown's opinion of Matt Brideswell swelled. The congressman had a boy to be proud of.

This part of the compound had been left to nature, with trees growing on top of bushes and last autumn's leaves still trying to rub themselves into the ground. They crackled underneath their feet. Other feet echoed around them, cult members armed with guns and suspicion, looking for enemy soldiers, panicking in the face of the explosions not ten minutes ago. Gerhardt restricted himself to hand signals to communicate with Brown, trusting in the other man to keep the boy close.

A group of three; Gerhardt steered them around, putting a large boulder between _us_ and _them_. Another man, this time a singleton and a little smarter than the rest and with better night vision: one look and he spotted the kid. The singleton opened his mouth to yell. With a look over his shoulder at the kid who was watching as best as he could in the night darkness, Gerhardt reversed the handle of the knife and brought it down hard over that certain spot right between the eyes. The man collapsed as though he'd been shot. Had he been alone, Gerhardt would have used the blade to make certain that they'd have no more trouble from this man. But this kid was still growing up, and he'd already faced more of life's realities than any kid ought to have. Gerhardt was willing to risk a bit to make certain that the worst was over. There'd be time for more nastiness later on in life.

Move ahead, try to go swiftly in the darkness. Shots ringing out in the distance, coming closer. More yelling all around them, men afraid for their lives. Gun shots—Gerhardt recognized Williams' piece, listened for Blane's and found it further on. It was hard to distinguish between the firearms, the cultists' and his own people's, but the distinction was there. The quality of the weapons shone forth to a man who knew how to listen.

A nervous man shot in their direction. "Hey!" Gerhardt yelled, trying to sound like one of their own, ducking. "Shoot them! Not us!"

"Sorry."

"Idiots," Gerhardt muttered under his breath.

"Hey! Who's the short one?"

_Crap_. Time to cut and run.

It didn't take any words. Both men knew what to do. Brown grabbed Matt by the arm and broke into a flat out sprint. Gerhardt flipped his automatic into a business position and sprayed a round of lead into the oncoming bunch. Most went down. Enough didn't, and more joined that group, that Gerhardt knew that it was time to get the hell out of Dodge. He took off after Brown.

More gunfire. Gerhardt slowed just long enough to answer, then caught up with Brown who had been held back by his charge. "Move!" he hissed. The rendezvous point was still half way across the compound, and at least half a dozen men had finally stumbled onto the fact that their one and only hostage was getting away. Much longer, and the entire camp would be hunting them with desperate determination.

Brown moved, pulling the boy along. The forest was now their enemy as well, slowing them down when they needed to go swiftly, black roots reaching up to grab their feet as they hustled. More gunfire; Brown automatically ducked, shoving the boy ahead of him to shield him from the bullets. He scanned the territory, searching for the optimal route to both escape the lead rain and to arrive at the rendezvous point where he knew that help would be waiting.

Then suddenly he was on the ground. Brown didn't remember falling, didn't remember anything but hustling the kid along and watching for gopher holes to trip them up and cult members to mow them down. But there was a curiously leaden feeling about his arm, one that hadn't been there before, and his legs felt a hell of a lot heavier than before. Matt cried out in fear.

Brown blinked. He'd been shot. Hell, not a good thing to have happened. Not right now. Least it didn't hurt. The adrenalin pushed everything else out.

Gerhardt grabbed his good arm, hoisting Brown to his feet. "Crap!" he snarled. "Can you walk?"

Brown blinked again. "Yeah."

"Gopher hole." Gerhardt pointed to a small, half-size shack sunk into the dirt just beyond the trees. It wasn't much, but it was a hell of a lot better than sitting out in the brush for the cult members to pick off at their leisure. "Gimme three, then bring the kid inside. I'll clean it out. Got it? Got it?" he repeated, giving Brown a little shake.

"Ow! Yeah, I got it." Another couple of minutes, and the pain would kick in, Brown knew. He forced himself to swing his rifle around, fired off a round to keep the cultists back. "I'm good," he said, more to convince himself than anything else.

Gerhardt stared, clearly unsure.

"Go," Brown insisted. "I'm good."

Gerhardt went.

Brown counted, going for the seconds. Three minutes, Gerhardt had said. One hundred and eighty seconds. Brown's pulse was hitting two hundred by now, and the kid's probably was, too.

One hundred seventy seven, seventy eight, seventy nine.

_Move._

Brown hoisted himself to his feet, furious that it took two tries and the kid himself helping, equally as annoyed that his vision wavered blackly and that the night goggles didn't help. Sweat poured off of his brow.

Gerhardt met them halfway, shoving the boy into the shack and yanking Brown after them. Brown all but fell onto the floor of the shack, body wanting to curl up into a little ball but forcing himself to grip his gun and crawl to where he could see out. Gerhardt slammed the door shut, the wooden slats only half covering the opening. But it was better shelter than anything in the brush. He peered out.

"They're grouping," he reported curtly. "We've got until they decide that they want us dead more than they want a live hostage."

"How many?"

"Enough." Which meant too many to count. The cult sure as hell had a lot more than the thirty members one genius thought that they had. Typical intelligence: worthless. They'd probably never know if the weapons count had been accurate. Gray had blown up most of it on his first pass. _Good for him_. At least one member of this team was getting his part right. Gerhardt pulled out his transceiver to talk to the other part that was succeeding at their task. "Dirt Diver to Snake Doctor."

He had to wait more than a moment before Blane could log on. "Snake Doctor here. What's your position, Dirt Diver?"

"The package is gift-wrapped, but one of the batteries developed a leak and we've got some gate-crashers."

"Understood, Dirt Diver. Stand by." Jonas signaled to Williams, the movements clear to the man with the night goggles but incomprehensible to the cultists. Williams, who had been keeping the corridor to the rendezvous clear, abandoned his post to take up a position next to his team leader.

It hadn't worked the last two times, and Jonas was beginning to fear the worst, but he tried any way. "Snake Doctor to Boombox."

Static. Just like the last two times. There wouldn't be any assistance from that arena. Jonas carefully set those concerns aside and moved out toward the other part of his team. He couldn't do anything for Gray, and the priority mission objective was clear: the congressman's son. Alive. Definitely alive.

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Brown hissed as Gerhardt carefully pressed a dressing against the hole in his shoulder, wishing for more adrenalin to shove away the hurt. "Dammit, be careful."

"I am." Gerhardt surveyed his handiwork worriedly. "You gonna be able to handle a gun?"

"I can shoot." _I can shoot one handed, if I have to_.

Matt spoke up. "Gimme a gun."

Both soldiers looked at the kid. Guts, he had. The boy was pale, bottom lip bitten through with terror, arms sore from hanging tied up for hours, and still willing to do what he could.

"You ever handle a gun?"

"Once. Summer camp. Hit the target pretty good." Matt was trying to match his rescuers' determined attitude.

Gerhardt knew better. "Your mom's out there."

That thought hadn't occurred to the kid. But he steeled his features. "She's not my mom. Not after this."

They needed a half way point, some way to keep the kid occupied and not screaming their position away but not so vital that they couldn't pull him back. Brown spoke. "She's still your mom, Matt. She always will be. She's just sick. She needs help. You man enough to make sure that she gets it?"

Looking at shoe time. Or, rather, at bare feet. The shoes had been lost sometime between now and being hoisted into the air with rope.

Brown looked at Gerhardt, received a barely perceptible nod. He pulled out his handgun, handed it over, butt first. Matt almost dropped it; it was heavier than he had anticipated.

"Don't shoot unless we tell you to. Wait for it," Brown advised. "And aim for the feet." _If you hit someone, you won't have to live with the fact that you've just murdered another human being_. "These are misguided people, not really bad." _Even though they are trying to kill us_. "And when we tell you, stop shooting. Our people are coming to get us. Don't want to shoot them by mistake."

"Right." More lip biting. Matt turned away to peer out through the cracks, pushing the barrel of Brown's gun between the slats like he'd seen in the movies.

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It wasn't hard to find Dirt Diver's location. It was the shack sunk into the ground with a mob of cult members huddled nearby, digging in behind a pile of rocks for cover. Blane wondered what was in the shack besides his men and one young boy. If it was explosives, one wrong move would completely ruin the primary mission objective, not to mention a few careers. And a few lives.

Time was the enemy. Time for cult reinforcements to arrive, time for the mob to work up the courage for a frontal attack, facing two men and a boy with minimal weaponry. The fact that Gerhardt hadn't started tossing pineapples suggested that the pair didn't have much left—or that there was too much chance for something inside the shack to go boom.

Time was the enemy. They needed to act now. Jonas held up a fist to Williams: _in three_.

Nod.

Three.

Two.

One.

As one, they came out blazing, automatic weaponry throwing lead as fast as they could. Men jerked and fell, others simply dove for the ground and huddled behind the boulders on the other side, caught between two pincers. The sensible ones fled. Blane and Williams let them go. They would be gone before the cultists could pull in reinforcements.

Inside, Gerhardt pulled Matt back, pushing the handgun so that it pointed down. "Hold up." He held the kid close, making sure that any stray bullet that made it inside through the cracks didn't find the wrong target, feeling the kid shake with suppressed terror. There was the acrid scent of fear, and Gerhardt refused to ask which body it came from. He simply pulled the boy to his own chest for cover, just in case.

Matt's face asked the question.

"Our people have arrived," Gerhardt answered him in a low voice. "Brown?"

"I see 'em." Brown too rolled back, leaning against the wall of the shack. But he kept his rifle in his hands, trying to be ready to move.

The gunfire died down. There was a polite knock at the door. A deep voice rang out.

"Anybody call for Triple A?"


	5. Tall Order 5

"Mommy, I'm scared." The little voice floated out of the bedroom in the dark.

"It's okay, honey." Kim was on the move before her daughter had finished speaking. "It's only a power failure. The lights are out. It'll be better in a little while."

"Mommy, I can't turn the lights on."

"That's right, sweetie. But it's okay. Ms. Blane and Ms. Gerhardt are here, too."

"Where's Daddy?"

"He had to go to work, honey. He'll be home soon."

"Will he be home before the lights come back on?"

"Probably not, Serena. You know that his business trips sometimes take a couple of days. But you need to go back to bed, and back to sleep right now, young lady. I'll be right here."

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"Entrance and exit wounds," Williams reported, strapping another layer of tape around Brown's shoulder.

"Can he travel?" Blane asked.

"I can do whatever I have to." Brown answered for himself. "Just give the order."

Blane nodded. He'd done right in taking that young man onto his team. Brown was doing himself proud. He turned to the even younger man, the one that measured all of fourteen years of life. He remembered how his daughter had acted at that stage, eager to be grown up and not really ready for it. A child who could turn in the most amazingly fine work one moment and hand you a toddler's temper tantrum in the next. "You ready to blow this popsicle stand?"

Despite himself, Matt grinned. But he fingered Brown's handgun nervously.

Blane noticed, gave the situation all the grave consideration it required. "You think you can hang onto that piece of tin foil? Sergeant Brown over there, he's going to want it back eventually. Think you can take care of it for him?"

A glint came into those blue eyes, and Matt Brideswell tried to stand taller than his five foot three inches. "Yes, sir."

"Good man. You stick close to me, hear? Don't want you wandering away from us, taking on this whole mess yourself. You might not leave any for us old-timers."

"Right. Uh, yes, sir."

Blane nodded again, as though he'd come to some sort of decision. "Everyone ready to move out? Williams, you got Brown?"

"We're ready, Top." Williams already had slung Brown's good arm over his shoulders, steadying the wounded man. Brown winced, pretending that his feet were solid beneath him.

"Mack, you've got point. I'll handle the flash, then you pull out. On my mark." Jonas moved to the opening half covered by the bullet-ridden door. He pulled a grenade from his pouch and pulled the pin. He had a powerful arm; that arm had been the pride of North Falls Church High School back more years than he cared to count. It served him well back then, and served him well right now. The grenade arced in a graceful curve to where the next wave of cultists were considering how to pry the sardines out of the can.

Sardines were their last priority. Pulling damaged limbs back to broken bodies suddenly seemed a lot more important as Gerhardt charged out, leading the way, firing on automatic and taking out anyone who even had a thought of doing more than huddling on the ground and whimpering. Williams followed with Brown, staggering over the rough terrain. Blane pushed Matt out ahead of him, watching the kid as he tried to follow the others, Matt keeping up as well or better than Williams with his burden.

The rendezvous point was out. Blane simply wanted away from this compound, the faster the better, the more direct route the better. There was no need for a rendezvous; the team was together, and its sole missing member hadn't been heard from in far too long. No time to wait around: Gerhardt took the swiftest, straightest heading toward the nearest fence. Cult members fled, having had enough. Those whose fanaticism outweighed their good sense went down. Matt's face turned and stayed white. But not a sound did he utter.

Except once. A cultist came at them from the side, straight at Matt and Jonas, a scream tearing from the man's throat, revenge in his heart. Jonas turned, swift as a striking rattler, his gun an extension of his hand to stop the man from his attack. The man jerked once, twice, and the third time blasted him back.

But Jonas had only fired twice. He looked at his newest team member. Matt's gun too was smoking, though the kid looked as though he might pass out right then and there.

_No time for that_. "Good work," Jonas told him. "Move out." And added a little push to get him moving. _Time for tears later._ _Even soldiers cry, son. You've earned it_. _Just don't try to collect right now_.

It would take too long to clip a new hole in the chain link fence, and Blane didn't even bother to try. Another grenade was all that it took. It also notified everyone in earshot that something major was occurring in the area. Blane and his men didn't hang around to discuss it.

Best speed: none too good. Brown was hustling, but his legs were about to go out on him. Williams was carrying more than half of the man's weight. Matt too was all in. _Hanging from your arms for too many hours does that to a man, even a fourteen year old man_. Gerhardt could keep going, but he was still intact and had already proven several times over that a twenty six mile marathon was an easy stroll in the park for the man. Blane gave his team five minutes before the cult members caught up with them, and then all hell would break loose. He had to come with Plan B. Hell, right now they were up to Plan C or D. Plan A had been abandoned long ago, once Gray failed to call back in. Blane forced his thoughts away from his missing team member. This was the Unit, where soldiers didn't come back. It was the risk that they all took, every time the beeper went off. It was why each one of them with a wife kissed that wife hard every time they left, whether it was in the morning or the middle of the night. It was why some men didn't take a wife.

Plan D: hunker down and wait for reinforcements. Those reinforcements were sitting just over the hill, not more than a mile or two away. Ten minutes at a flat out run with a ruck, twenty minutes leisurely stroll. Fifteen minutes for the National Guard to send up and back for move out orders, less if they were commanded by a fresh-faced kid with more than mush for brains who was eager for a little action on his own without waiting for his superiors. Better not count on that. Could Jonas and his men hold out for help to arrive?

"How much ammo has everyone got?" It was time to reassess.

"Four clips." "Only two." "Seven, plus what's in my ruck. Six pineapples." That last was Brown, and Jonas kind of figured that. The youngest of his men liked to outthink the enemy rather than shoot 'em, and he and Gerhardt had been in a tunnel where the shooting wasn't about to advance them any. Some day Brown'd get himself scrambled up in his own brains and that would straighten him out if it didn't kill him. But until then, Jonas was pleased to have his munitions.

"Williams." Jonas detailed the plan, all five seconds of it. "Hustle it over the hill, take command of the Guardsmen any way you can. Don't let 'em waste time asking for orders from their superiors. Get their asses over here, ready to shoot. Got it? Go."

"Yes, sir." Williams turned Brown over to Gerhardt and took off into the night. Seconds later not even Jonas could see him any longer.

"Defensible position?" Jonas looked around, spotted a grouping of trees. "There? Anything better?"

"Rocks over there." Gerhardt had taken off his night goggles, but his night vision had always been better than Blane's. "Nothing to slip through the leaves."

"Good." Blane had no trouble accepting someone else's better idea. "Move in and set up housekeeping."

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This time when Serena tiptoed out to snuggle onto the sofa next to Kim, no one tried to stop her. It was still dark, the only light that which was reflected by the moon. The television set remained as dark as the street lamps outside, all bereft of power.

"Where's Daddy?"

"Daddy's at work, sweetie."

"Where's that? Did he take a plane?"

"I don't know, honey."

"Is he coming home?"

"Yes, Serena, he is," Kim said firmly.

"When?"

"I don't know, honey."

"Tonight?"

Kim sighed, and looked out into the dark. "Probably not." She looked back at her daughter. "What are you doing up at this hour? I ought to send you back to your bed."

But it felt so good to have the little warm body snuggled up next to hers. Looking at the pair with moonlight seeping through the curtains to provide the only illumination, Molly couldn't help but wonder about her own daughter away at college, remembering the times when that snuggling was hers to cherish.

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Jonas checked on Brown. It didn't take night goggles to see the blood seeping out from underneath the tight bandage on his shoulder, or the lines that edged the man's face. Brown clutched his gun with his good hand, relaxing the other but ready to take the weapon up in two hands when called upon.

"Close your eyes," Jonas ordered quietly. "Rest. I'll wake you before it starts," he added wryly. "You won't miss anything important."

Brown smiled tiredly, did as he was told. Gerhardt, peering out into the night and watching for the enemy to approach, spared him a look and a frown of concern. Jonas turned to his next charge. Matt Brideswell was too wired to take the same orders for rest.

"They're coming for me, aren't they." It wasn't a question.

"They're going to try." It was only the truth.

"I'm not gonna let them. Even if my mom's there." Matt's fingers clenched on Brown's handgun, coming perilously close to the trigger.

Jonas slipped the safety on, removing that hazard. "She won't be, son. She's inside the barracks, with the other women. I trapped them in there, for safe-keeping until this is all over. She won't be coming out until the other ladies do."

"You saw her? In the barracks?"

"Yes," Jonas lied. To be honest, he didn't remember what the woman looked like. She hadn't been one of the mission parameters, and he had more important things to remember. Like the layout of the compound, and the positioning of the tunnels, and how much in the way of munitions these people were supposed to have, and how many men in the compound… He could go on for another ten minutes if he needed to. But he didn't.

Matt stared out into the darkness. "She shouldn't have brought me here."

"No, son, she shouldn't have. But we don't always do as we're supposed to. Even adults who ought to know better."

There were a lot of nasty thoughts going on inside the boy's head. "Father Tall, he's the one who told 'em to tie me up."

"Then he has a lot to answer for, doesn't he?"

Matt, surprised, snuck a look at Jonas. "He said he's my father. That he's everyone's father."

"I'm certain that he'd like people to believe that." Jonas stretched out an arm, deliberately admiring the dark skin beneath his fatigues. "Me, I tend to doubt that I came from any such stock. Though I'm willing to admit to being something of the same height."

Matt couldn't help it; that pushed out something akin to an hysterical giggle. But it had the right effect: the twitch in his trigger finger next to the carefully locked safety eased up.

"When they come," _when_, not _if_, "when they come, use those bullets carefully. You have six of them. Make them count," Jonas said quietly, man to man. "I don't have the time to teach you how to reload on the fly, and we'll all be better off if we keep you as our back up." _You'll be less likely to shoot someone's foot off. Probably mine_. "You keep that safety on unless you see someone coming in over the boulders. Understand?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good man. Sgt. Williams has gone for help. He'll be back any minute with the National Guard." _Or any hour._ _Possibly tomorrow, when the sun comes up. Makes it easier to see what you're doing. That's what that fool Rostenberg would say._

"Where is he?"

"Sgt. Williams? By now he's probably trotting into camp, sending a private off for a martini on the rocks while he waits for the Guard to come to attention." Jonas tried to make it light. Williams was fast over cross country terrain. Reaching the Guard encampment right now was very likely an accurate guess. It was only a couple of miles away.

"Naw. I mean Father Tall."

"Good question." Jonas looked off into the night, seeing what Gerhardt was seeing. And _not_ seeing the leader of this cult. That simple fact continued to puzzle Jonas. Cult leaders couldn't help but be in the thick of things. Cowards turned tail and ran when times got tough but cult leaders always believed that they would prevail, even against the might of the United States Army. There was a piece here that was missing. Even if the man had been killed, there would have been a reaction. The camp would have fallen apart, the combatants surrendering in confusion. That hadn't happened, and Jonas was at a loss to explain why.

Not particularly important at the moment. What was important was to keep this boy alive and return him to his father. From a purely selfish standpoint, that would put an influential voice in Congress squarely on the side of the military. Success would put another notch on the career belt of one Sergeant Major Jonas Blane.

It had nothing to do with the smudged and determined face of the youngster beside him.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Here they come," Gerhardt warned.

Jonas fingered the grenade in his hand, pulling the pin but holding down the trigger. Across the rocky den Gerhardt was doing the same.

"Jonas," Gerhardt warned nervously. There was something up.

Jonas didn't need two looks to know that they were in trouble. Someone with an ounce of sense had finally gotten things organized. It had to happen sooner or later, and they had been fortunate that it was later. But their luck had to run out.

The cult members were no longer rushing forward in a mob. That would have been too easy. Both Blane and Gerhardt could have lobbed their grenades in that general direction and removed the majority of the threat in two easy moves. The rest would have been fodder for a keen eye and a rifle. They wouldn't have even needed Brown, resting in the corner, trying not to bleed any more than he had to.

Instead the cultists were picking their way forward, hiding behind trees and spreading themselves around the perimeter of Blane's group so that a grenade—or even two or three grenades—would do far less damage. Someone was now giving orders to the cultists, and that someone knew a smattering of soldiering.

Jonas tossed a look back. "Now would be a good time to take the safety off, son."

Brown took that as his cue to crawl forward, gun in hand, trying not to use the other. "Top?"

"Need to make the ammo last." Jonas started picking out targets. Fat one, trying to hide behind the skinny tree. Better take out the genius with the automatic right quick. That could do a lot of damage. Jonas decided on the spot where his grenade would go. Wouldn't take out all that many enemy soldiers, but it would eliminate that automatic as a threat. That made it a worthwhile target.

No time like the present. Jonas threw.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"Hold it right there, buddy!"

Williams halted on a dime. "Sgt. Williams," he reported. "My team is trapped about a mile from here, about to take heavy fire. We need reinforcements!"

"How do we know that you're not one of those cult crazies?"

Williams sent up a silent prayer for divine intervention.

It came. "He's not," the Guardsman said with annoyance. "Look at him, Joe. Those crazies come in only one color, and he ain't it." He pointed his gun down. "Let me get on the radio."

Blane had been right, Williams reflected gratefully. Mack Gerhardt would have been shot on sight. Friendly fire. More than one type of fool.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

Grenades: gone.

Ammo: two clips left between them, a partial in Brown's weapon, plus six lone little bullets in Brown's handgun still clutched in a fourteen year old boy's hands.

Cover: rapidly being chipped away by gunfire. They were in as much danger from rocky shrapnel as they were from taking a bullet. Gerhardt already sported a red slash across his cheek.

And still they came. Whoever had suggested that the cult had a mere thirty members had some serious issues with basic arithmetic. Jonas alone had accounted for ten in the last twenty minutes, stretching his ammo, and not counting in the cluster of three that had gone under his grenade. He suspected that Mack Gerhardt on the other side of the clearing could discuss the same numbers, and Brown had done in at least half that many.

He wanted to put in a mayday to Williams, tell the man to hurry it up, but the rocks defeated his transceiver. The signal bounced off of the boulders, and Jonas suspected that some of them had an iron core which was playing havoc with the radio waves. No way to tell that when they'd chosen the site, and no way to scout for better real estate. Nothing to do but wait it out.

_Crack!_ Curse, from Gerhardt, and the man threw his useless rifle down in disgust. He tugged his handgun from his waist, shaking the pain away from his wrist. "Bent the barrel," he snarled. "Lucky shot."

"Lucky it wasn't your hand," Jonas returned.

"Lucky it wasn't my head."

"Look out!" Matt screamed suddenly. He shoved Brown's handgun forward, barely aiming, squeezing the trigger.

Brown felt the whistle of the bullet slip by his cheek. Hard won instincts took over, and his own gun swung fluidly of its own volition to follow up on the missed shot, taking his attacker in the gut, taking the man down, muscles reacting despite his injuries. Another attacker followed, raining fire at them, and a third behind him.

"They're all around us!" Gerhardt yelled.

"Fire at will!" Jonas ordered. This was it. It was what he would have ordered, had he been in the cult leader's position. Encircle and ensnare. Catch the enemy in the crossfire. Pin them down, and shoot from cover, using superior numbers to whittle away at defenses and then at lives. Short lives, soon to be over. Never to see his Molly again. Never to see his daughter graduate from college, the first in his family to do so—

"Keep your heads down!" Blane ordered. "We only have to hold out for a few more minutes!"

Only a few minutes more of hell, with a fourteen year old boy to protect.

Where the hell was Williams with the National Guard? Where was the cavalry?


	6. Tall Order 6

The television came back on with a hiccup, the screen wavering under the uncertain influx of power. The lamps flickered as well, bringing the room back into the Twenty First century and the Age of Electricity.

"Finally," Molly sniffed.

"Took them long enough," Tiffy agreed. "I wonder what it was?"

"Somebody could have plowed into a pole," Kim thought. Her daughter remained snuggled at her side, sound asleep. Kim didn't move quite yet. Keeping her daughter asleep wasn't a bad thing, not on a night like this. "Maybe they just got it fixed."

The sound achieved volume on the TV. "Negotiations are progressing with the Cult of the New Revelations," the reporter told them. "Sources have confirmed that the majority of the cult members are ready to surrender to the authorities, and that it is only a small core group of die hards that are holding out. Those same sources suggest that all will be in custody by day break, thanks to the heroic efforts of the Texas National Guard. No shots have been fired, yet pressure was put onto the cult leadership when the compound was surrounded. Let's look at the timeline over the last two days…" The reporter's voice trailed off.

"That's a good sign," was Kim's opinion. "One less problem for America. I'm glad that no one was killed. They're just a bunch of misguided people."

"They needed help," Tiffy agreed. "Maybe now they can get it."

None of them said what they were really thinking: was that where their menfolk were?

It sounded too easy.

Xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

"You! You in there!"

"I'm listening," Jonas yelled back. _Because listening takes up time, time for Williams to come with a whole squadron of National Guard out for your blood_.

"You're out of ammo!"

"We have enough. Want to come closer? I'll prove it to you." _Bald-faced lie_. The only bullets left were the two remaining in Brown's handgun. Jonas had taken it from the boy a few moments previously and placed three of the last five pieces of lead into three different enemy cult members who wouldn't be troubling him for a good long time to come.

"We only want the boy."

Jonas could feel Matt trembling beside him. "Not gonna happen, son." He turned back to the perimeter. "Life is full of disappointments," he shouted back.

"He's only a boy. No need to get yourself killed over some other man's child."

Clearly not a parent. Not even a decent human being. Jonas Blane distinctly recalled Hector Williams and Charlie Gray coming across Jonas's own daughter trying to leave an establishment where she shouldn't have been, not at her age. Not at any age. The details had never been made completely clear to him—he gave his daughter that much space, since it appeared that she had learned a stern lesson from it—but he understood that he owed a debt to the men on his team above and beyond what a man owes to the other members of his unit and their families. One of the greatest compliments he could give to a fellow soldier was to tell him, _I trust you with my family_.

Jonas would do no less. Had done no less, in other circumstances, for other men's sons and daughters.

"You have something in mind?" _Something that just might waste a few more minutes, perhaps?_

"Send him out. We'll leave you alone."

Jonas waited as long as he dared before replying, stretching out the seconds, watching Matt Brideswell's eyes get bigger and bigger. He winked at the kid. "Sorry. I seem to have misplaced him." With sudden inspiration, he added, "I think he's with his father right now."

Snort. His opposite number wasn't buying it. "If that were so, you wouldn't be here. You'd have left already. We could take you out right here and now, every one of you."

"You could try."

"You've been trying," Mack Gerhardt added sarcastically. "Haven't had much luck, have you?"

"I'll fight you for him," the other man announced. "One to one, no weapons but your bare hands. You win, we'll let you go without anyone getting more hurt than they already are. All of you, including the kid."

Jonas stared, not believing what he was hearing. _Amateurs!_ Learned everything from that damn TV, thought that they could win by appealing to his sense of fair play.

But not quite. Jonas had seen the man doing the shouting, and he was as big if not bigger than Jonas himself. And for someone in this position to make such an offer there had to be some catch.

Plenty of catches on his own side. Truly out of bullets, despite his brave words. No sign of Williams with the cavalry. One man down. They needed to play for time.

Gerhardt stopped him. "You can't be serious. They'll shoot you as soon as you step out of cover."

"I don't think so." Jonas studied the cultists in front of him. They were still hidden behind the far boulders—badly hidden, in Jonas's opinion. If he'd had enough bullets, he could have winged every single one of them. "I think they have something else in mind."

Gerhardt snorted.

"No, really." Jonas continued to study his opposite number, the one doing the shouting and the bargaining. "Look at him."

"Right. Big guy, long arms."

"And knows some strategy," Jonas reminded him. "They treed us, now he's trying to pull us out without any further loss of life. Think his people are getting a little tired of the wholesale slaughter? Think there might be something else going on? Where's Father Tall?"

Gerhardt too assessed the situation. "Looks like he's wrestled some. Those arms, probably pretty good at it. You think you can take him?"

"Not the point," Jonas said. "You nailed it when you said they have something else in mind—but so do we. I don't need to win. I need to waste time for Williams to get his ass back here." He handed Brown's handgun over to Gerhardt. "There are two left. Don't waste 'em." He stood up. "I'll take you up on your offer," he shouted. "I'm coming out."

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There was a shock of recognition when Blane faced his opponent. He hadn't seen the man for at least four years, hadn't ever seen him fight in person, but the man's face had been plastered over the local papers for several weeks those four years past and even once made the nationals on the sports section inside.

Curt Brodin had been a wrestler, one of the dirtier ones, as far as Blane was concerned. In this day and age, everything on that particular circuit was a soap opera with wrestlers putting on acts like a three ring circus. With Brodin, it hadn't seemed like an act. Foul language and racial slurs was how it was politely characterized in the court proceedings when a fellow wrestler had died. There wasn't enough evidence to rule the death a homicide, but subsequent events placed Brodin into the state run prison for the insane. Blane recalled seeing a story on the man some time later, something about finding religion. The only religion that it seemed Brodin had found, Blane decided, was the one that Father Tall headed up. Fitting.

Which would make this little dust up more interesting. His men, Gerhardt and Brown, would be watching from cover along with Matthew Brideswell. The rest of the cult, however many there were, would be watching intently from the perimeter. When he had walked out, Jonas had been certain that he could win this encounter. He was, after all, a fighting man in the best condition of his life. He'd survived numerous enemy encounters with men so vicious that they made Brodin look like a man in a petunia garden. He had expected to play with his opponent so as to take up enough time for Williams to return.

As he'd taunted them before: _life is full of little disappointments_.

Jonas studied Curtis Brodin. The man was as tall as Jonas himself, with a slightly longer reach. The way he stood on the balls of his feet said he was a trained fighter. Wrestling for the small screen involved lots of tricks that would get a sane man killed, but Jonas wasn't willing to bet that Brodin _didn't_ know the real art of wrestling. The art of Greco-Roman wrestling had been used by men for millenia to protect their homes from invaders, the same art that Brodin and Jonas Blane were about to engage in for possession of a single fourteen year old boy. The art of wrestling could be used to kill another human being.

There was more: Jonas Blane distinctly recalled Special Agent Olivero telling him that they now had issued a warrant for the arrest of one Curtis Brodin on the charge of murder. A second murder, about to occur in the next few minutes of one Master Sergeant Jonas Blane, was not out of the realm of possibility. Not if Curtis Brodin had his way.

Brodin had already removed his shirt, and Jonas did the same. Shirts could get grabbed, and the body inside thrown to the hard ground. Didn't need that. Jonas pretended to limber up, wasting more time. His blood was already pumping, had been for the last several hours, but Jonas went through the motions any way. _Williams, where are you?_

They circled, arms swinging, looking for an opening. Jonas could feel all eyes on him, on Brodin, men grunting in time with the combatants. He feinted, an early move to draw Brodin out, and wasn't surprised when Brodin failed to take the bait.

"Damn nigger," Brodin taunted. "What're you doing in a white man's army, nigger?"

Jonas kept his temper. He'd heard it before, from better men than this specimen. It was the same sort of trap as Jonas had just used, designed to draw him out into an ill-conceived move. These were only words.

But Jonas could turn those words back at Brodin. "Better than you, I suspect. I'm not living in a tree stump, pretending that I'm somebody special. Heard you weren't good enough to get into this man's army." Hadn't heard anything of the sort, but it sounded good.

Brodin lashed out, his strike blocked by Jonas's forearm. Damn, the man was fast! Jonas felt the bone rattle inside his skin. And there was plenty of rock hard muscle lined up against him. Those boulders that Jonas and his men had been hiding in seemed soft by comparison. It was going to be plenty tough to draw this match out. Jonas was going to be lucky to keep his head on his shoulders.

They were more evenly matched that Jonas had anticipated. They circled, feinting; once Jonas managed to get a grip on Brodin but lost it, and then Brodin returned the favor. Jonas almost didn't squeak out of that one. He could sense more than see the spectators crowding around, urging their man to win.

How long had it been? Jonas lost track of the time. It was longer than three minutes, longer than a traditional match on a mat. But there wasn't anything traditional about this. This was man against man, strength against strength. This was for the right to walk out of here with a fourteen year old boy, to return him to his father, to—

"They're gone!"

The shout rang out. Guns snapped forward, all pointed at Jonas Blane. Brodin pulled back, his teeth ripping out in a snarl. "What do you mean?"

"They're gone! They slipped away!"

Brodin whirled on Jonas. "You! You told them to do this!"

Jonas shrugged. "Didn't tell 'em not to." Gerhardt would have had his hands full, trying to keep together a wounded man barely able to keep his feet and a kid who'd been literally tortured just a few hours ago. Jonas had needed to put on a show, keep everyone's attention on the center ring—and he had.

Brodin growled wordlessly. "Take him. Bring him along." He shoved his face into Blane's as the cult members grabbed Blane, immobilizing him. "We'll see just how much your men think of you."

_A hell of a lot more than yours do of you, Brodin_.


	7. Tall Order 7

More time. More time. Blane kept the smile off of his face, walking as slowly as they'd let him back to the center of the compound. More time for Gerhardt to get the rest of Blane's team away and safe. More time for Williams to bring back help.

More time to stay alive.

Jonas still hadn't seen Father Tall, and that was puzzling him. Brodin had taken over, which suggested that the cult leader had been killed in the initial barrage. But cults generally fell apart at that point, yet this one hadn't. Brodin had smoothly stepped in, though he wasn't the type to attract a following. No, without Father Tall as a front man, Brodin would have no sway over the cult followers. What was going on?

He soon found out. Despite dragging his feet, they pushed and shoved him toward the center of the compound, the grounds torn up by grenades and bullets. There was scarcely a tree that didn't have a chunk of bark chipped out, testifying to the immense quantity of munitions that Father Tall and his acolytes had acquired during their tenure. They didn't have nearly the same amount now, Jonas decided. They'd used up a great deal of it dealing with his men. Not bad for a five man unit. Though Jonas would really like to see this turn out a whole lot better; say, with the hero riding off into the sunset and this cult being carted off to see a judge with an attitude.

Make that three judges. It would take that many to deal with all the cult members, and that was just those who were left after Jonas and his people were through. There was a pile of dead bodies pushed off to one side, and only the fact that it was still night keeping the flies from attacking the flesh. Jonas couldn't feel too bad about them; they'd started it. Jonas and his people had been called in to finish it. But he _would_ feel good that Matthew Brideswell wasn't here to witness it. Priority Mission Objective achieved.

The women and children were still trapped inside the barracks, downed trees barricading the exits. One tree had been chopped away, but only two men had been detailed to release them, and it was slow going. A little faster now that no one was shooting at the men with the axes and saws, but still slow enough to please him.

The compound was gratifyingly empty compared to just a few hours ago when he was looking at it through night goggles. Jonas wondered idly what had happened to those goggles. They'd been lost somewhere in the flight out of the compound. Not that it mattered at the moment. He was more interested in what had happened to Father Tall. That was the secondary mission objective: to assist the local enforcement agents in the apprehension of designated personnel. Curtis Brodin standing beside him was one of those designated personnel. John Alloway, AKA Father Tall, was another. Where was he? Not that Jonas was in any position to do any arresting of designated personnel at the moment. But it would be nice to know, just in case a miracle occurred.

Someone had lit a bonfire in the center of the compound—no, it was left over from one of Charlie Gray's explosions and coddled into producing some light and heat beyond the wreckage for the survivors. Jonas felt a pang in his chest. After all this time, after no word and no response on the transceiver, the young soldier had to be dead. Probably caught in his own explosion, unable to get away in time before Jonas hit the switch on him. It would be the way that Boombox would want to go; that, and a picture on the wall of fame back at HQ. He deserved more. They all did.

But beyond that fire was a crowd of people, of men still angry and swirling in little circles. They were moving around in a mob, distancing themselves from a central point yet always returning. Jonas peered through the dark, trying to discern what had captured their interest.

He would soon find out. His own captors were pushing him in that direction, Brodin leading the way.

They pushed him through the crowd, Jonas collecting a few blows on the way. Those he ignored; they did no real damage. He was more interested in what had captured the crowd's rapt attention.

Father Tall—Jonas recognized him from the pictures—was at the crowd's center. But that wasn't all. Father Tall was in deep shit.

Well, maybe not so deep; not in the strictest sense of the word which included a certain measure of length. Charlie Gray was shorter than John Alloway by almost a foot, so in order to keep his knife at Father Tall's throat, Charlie had commandeered a crate to perch on. A one footed perch, Jonas realized. The other leg had a long slash in it that continued to ooze as Jonas watched. It didn't seem to work so well.

It worked well enough. Deep or tall, Charlie had kept a third of the cult members occupied by holding his sharp-edged blade to the cult leader's throat for the last hour. Without this diversion, Jonas realized, the others might never have been able to escape. Jonas wanted to cheer.

Brodin stopped Jonas several feet away from the tableau, close enough for Gray to see that a stand-off was in the making.

Father Tall was the first to react. "Kill him! Kill the spawn of Satan now! Do not permit him to defile our holy ground further!"

_Seriously looney toons_.

Gray had already heard that same 'toon' before. He yanked on Father Tall's long mane, squeezing out a surprised yelp. Why there should be surprise, Gray hadn't a clue. He'd only done the same thing half a dozen times before, every time that the cult leader started to screech about something or other. "Feel free," he invited the crowd. "You'll be doing a contestant search for the next Father." He set the blade a little closer to Father Tall's throat, drawing a thin red line. The crowd drew back nervously.

"Kill him," Brodin threatened loudly, putting his own knife to Jonas's throat, "and I'll kill this man."

It was enough of this. Time to make their respective positions known to their captors. Jonas Blane cleared his throat, Brodin's knife cold against his skin. A barber's shave couldn't be closer. But Blane kept his nerves cool and his voice colder. "Sergeant Gray, if I become further incapacitated in any way, kill your hostage. Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir!"

Brodin growled. "Your man is injured. He's about to fall over. Look at him! Give in now, and we'll let you walk out of here. You can both leave, unharmed. That's the best deal you're going to get from me. Take it now, before he goes belly up."

Brodin was correct. Gray was clearly at the end of his rope.

But Charlie Gray, like Jonas Blane, was a member of the Unit. The end of the rope was where the Unit _began_. Blane spoke one more time. "Sergeant Gray, if you believe that you are about to lose control of this situation for any reason, you have my direct order to kill your hostage no matter what the consequences to me or any person in this immediate vicinity. Do I make myself clear?"

Gray pulled himself up, putting out that little bit extra bit of energy. His knife squeezed Father Tall's windpipe. The cult leader's eyes rolled with terror. "Yes, sir!"

Brodin glared. "You're bluffing."

This time Jonas Blane did smile, teeth clear and white and bright in the moonlight. "Am I? Sergeant Gray, am I bluffing?"

"No, sir!" Another drop of blood appeared on Father Tall's neck. The man squeaked. It was an odd sound to come out of the tall hostage.

Blane continued to talk into the night, unable to turn to face Brodin with Brodin's knife at his throat but no less persuasive for all of that. "Stand-off, Brodin. You have me, but my man has yours. And you can less afford the loss than I can. I've already come to terms with my demise; I made my peace with the Lord a long time ago when I put this uniform on for the first time. There's nothing that you can do that will alter what I have to do here tonight. The best that you can do is to give yourself up. That will save a lot of lives, including your own, sir."

"He won't last forever." Brodin was trying desperately to convince himself of that. "Your man is wiped. He'll drop any minute now."

"Whereupon he'll slice that knife through Father Tall's windpipe as he drops." Blane kept his voice cool and calm with a hint of _you can trust me_ in it. It was the voice that could talk a terrorist out of a building, the voice that would persuade a frightened kid that he really didn't want to do what the bad man had told him to do. It was the voice that people naturally listened to. It was a weapon for all of that, and Blane used it as well as he used his handgun. "You don't really want that. You like being the number two power here. You like Father Tall being in charge, telling you and everyone else what to do, and then you telling everyone else to carry out his orders. You want him to stay around."

"Pull your man off." Brodin made an effort to break away from the hypnosis of Jonas's voice. "I'll kill you!" It didn't have the same anger as before, but the words did still have desperation.

"But that's not what you want," Jonas continued, soothing tones oiling forth. "You want to save Father Tall." Even Father Tall was falling under Jonas's spell, listening to the words as if it weren't his own life that hung in the balance along with Jonas's.

Charlie blinked, trying to keep the sweat from dripping into his eyes. Darkness was creeping around the edges of his vision. Blood loss, he knew. He didn't have much more time. He hoped Jonas knew that. Something needed to happen, and soon. He repositioned the knife, digging his hand further into Father Tall's long hair. Movement kept him awake, pushed the blackness away. He swallowed hard, stiffening his resolve. Charlie would keep going as long as Jonas needed him to.

"Now, you can keep us all standing here," Jonas said in that same soothing voice though altering the tone of the conversation, "but me, I'd rather be sitting down somewhere with a cold beer in my hand. And if I recall, Brodin, you've made mention of the same thing on more than one occasion."

_Is that your hand sliding upward, Top?_

"How about it, Brodin? You keep any beer here? Fine campground like this deserves a little beer around a fire."

_Hope that's you making your move, Top._ _I don't have much more left in me_.

"We can get some of those ladies out to pour it for us," Jonas said, looking at Charlie still holding the knife to Father Tall's throat, holding the man's eyes firmly with his own, noting the shakiness of the hand holding the knife. "Some of the pretty ones. You got any of those fine ladies around?"

Brodin was finally sucked in. "Yeah," he started to say. "There's this little one—"

Blane's hand flashed up and knocked Brodin's knife hand away from his vulnerable throat. Step one: accomplished.

But Brodin was a wrestler, a successful one for all of his temper. He knew wrestling holds, he knew how to break a man's body. He was fast and he knew how to _move_.

But he didn't know how to fight when it counted. He hadn't run missions in the back streets of Cairo, where getting your information through to your contact depended on your ability to get past that man watching from the doorway. He hadn't done his time in the jungles of South America learning the tricks that the drug lords would play on a man just for the fun of it. For Brodin, losing meant not winning the match.

For Jonas Blane, losing meant losing his life, and all that it stood for.

For Jonas Blane, losing was not an option.

Jonas grabbed Brodin's thumb and twisted. Brodin screamed in sudden pain, bending to try to pull away from Blane. Blane kept coming. A sharp palm strike to the nose, and Brodin suddenly forgot about the pain in his hand in favor of the agony in his nose. Stars danced, and they weren't the ones in the sky above. A yank, and Brodin's arm came out of its socket and a shriek out from his throat. He collapsed. He was done.

Blane had just begun. "You." He pointed at the nearest man, taking a step forward.

The man shrunk back from this demon that had appeared among them, terrified that he'd end up like Brodin, a man he'd looked up to.

"You," Blane repeated. "Open the gates. Now. You, go with him."

"Don't do it!" yelled Father Tall from Gray's hold. Gray yanked back on the long hair, cutting off the next command from the cult leader with a yelp.

"Do it," Blane said one more time, adding, "unless you want that man to die here and now."

The pair scurried off.

Next task: getting out of this hell hole. Blane carefully stepped to Gray's side, not looking at the rest of the crowd but well aware of where each and every one of them stood. "Sergeant?"

Gray blinked, trying to comprehend.

"I'm ready to take over now, sergeant," Blane told him seriously.

Another blink. "That's good, Top." Gads, even a grin as Gray carefully transferred his hold on Father Tall to Blane. It went well; standing on top of the crate Gray was almost as tall as his team leader. Jonas took hold of the knife at Tall's throat, digging his own hand into the mass of hair that Father Tall cultivated. Gray blinked again, and swayed. "Top—"

"Permission denied, sergeant. We still need to walk out of here. Keep it together."

Gray swallowed hard. "Yes, sir." Grabbing onto the edge of the wall behind him, he awkwardly stepped down from the crate, wobbling but still standing.

This next would be the difficult part. Until now, there had only been three fronts to watch. There was a limit as to which way they could come at him. Gray had put the wall of a shack at his back, removing that one direction for assault. Now there were four potential avenues for an attack. Moving toward the gate meant exposing themselves on all sides and, if someone around here had more than two brain cells to rub together, they could drop onto Jonas and Father Tall from the trees. Make that five fronts.

But this is what Jonas and his men had trained for, day and night, until they could perform feats that no man ought to be able to do. Jonas exchanged the knife for an automatic for better flexibility, plucking it from the hands of a terrified cultist; the threat was still present, he could kill the cult leader with a single pull of his finger, and then turn that automatic onto an onrushing crowd. And they all knew it. Behind him, Gray had his six with his own automatic weapon, scanning more than his 180 degrees of line of fire and up into the trees. Gray would keep going, Jonas knew, as long as he had to. Jonas was very glad that the gate lay a mere hundred yards away, right around that barracks sunk into the ground. They stepped out.

Noise. Noise in the distance, coming closer. The sound of engines, big ones, run by men with training in how to use them, and Jonas wasn't referring to bull dozers. Well, perhaps he was, but bull dozers of a different kind. Bull dozers with guns, and power to knock fences down, and power to shield bullets coming at them to protect the men inside.

It meant that Williams had gotten through. And, if they were coming here to the compound, it meant that Mack Gerhardt had likewise gotten through and re-directed the National Guard to the compound instead of to the clearing where Williams had left them. It meant that Mission Objective One: bring out one Matthew Brideswell alive, had been successfully accomplished.

And it meant that Mission Objective Two: assist the local enforcement officials with the apprehension of suspects, had also been accomplished, for just who else did Jonas Blane have his hands on?

Four Humvees roared up to the gate, the first one slowing to rumble through the already opened gate. Gerhardt popped his head out, an automatic in his hands. He looked around.

"Damn, Jonas," he howled. "You leave any for me?"

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Special Agent Olivero of the FBI snapped the cuffs onto John Alloway, AKA Father Tall. National Guardsmen were streaming into the ruined compound, seizing both men and evidence as fast as they could. Olivero turned Father Tall around to face him. "It gives me great pleasure," he informed the man, "to tell you that you are under arrest for the murder of Agent David Mann of the FBI, and numerous other crimes that it will take an entire day in court simply to read through."

"The Lord will look out for me," Father Tall responded simply. "He will smite you all for your impertinence. Especially you," he added, glaring at Jonas. "There will be a special place in hell for your actions of today. He will cast lightnings upon you. And you," he sneered at Gray.

"Oh, good. Wouldn't want to be left out of the action," Gray mumbled. "Top?" There was a plea in his words.

Blane understood immediately, and gestured to Gerhardt and Williams. The pair immediately moved in on their teammate. "Permission granted, sergeant."

"Thank you, sir." Gray collapsed, the other two grabbing him before he could hit the ground. His head lolled back lifelessly. Gerhardt and Williams shouldered him, lifted him off of his feet.

"Mack?" Jonas needed another piece of information before they left.

"Docs have already gotten to Brown," Gerhardt reassured him. "He's in surgery right now, patching up the hole in his shoulder. Docs say he should be fine in a week or so."

That was good. "The boy?"

"With his father. Don't think the guy's gonna let go of him for the next three years."

That was also good.

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"It's not every story like this that has a happy ending, but we're pleased to announce that this one does," said the reporter. "Members of the Cult of the New Revelations surrendered to authorities early this morning. Early reports suggest that only three lives were lost, three cult members who committed suicide rather than surrender, but the sixty others walked out of the compound waving a white flag of truce."

Molly poured coffee into Kim's cup, and freshened Tiffy's. "That's nice to hear. It's a good thing when problems can be solved without resorting to violence." Not voiced: _especially when that violence involves our nearest and dearest_. "I wonder what will happen to them?"

"The culties?" Tiffy shrugged. "Who knows? Probably slide back into the woodwork somewhere. There are crazies all over the place."

"I knew a girl who belonged to a cult once," Kim volunteered. "She told me that the cult leader was a real fanatic, burning eyes that could see right through you. Said it made her tingle whenever he looked her way."

"What happened to her?" Molly asked.

"She moved away," Kim replied. "I think she wanted to escape from the memories." She shuddered. "I met the cult leader once. Bethie tried to get me to join when she was still a part of it. She was right; those eyes really did make you tingle. It was scary."

"In an unrelated story," the television went on, and the three of them turned their attention idly back to the set out of sheer habit, Molly sipping at her mug, "a similar event has been going on in Idaho, where yet another cult has been apprehended by local authorities. The charges here involved murder of a local FBI official and the kidnapping of a congressman's son. Details are sketchy, but discussions with local residents confirm that shots were fired sometime during the night. There are no reports of any injuries, and all that the local enforcement officials will say is that the congressman's son was rescued safely and that the murderer was taken into custody. Back to you, Chet."

The women stared at the set, the same thoughts running through each head: _where is my man?_ Knowing that they would never know the answer. And that the questions had just multiplied.

Molly set down her cup firmly and turned off the set. "We all have things to do," she said. "Those men won't be on their business trip forever, and we have jobs to get to. As nice as this is, we can't spend all day listening to other people's problems."

"It's a waste of a good morning," Tiffy put in.

"Especially not problems that people make for themselves." Kim nodded. "Thanks for the coffee, Molly. And for the company last night."

"My pleasure."


End file.
